Category: Fiction

Elizabeth Chapman

 

I fibbed to Ms. Vanderhooft. It was her word “beginner” that bothered me. The word gave the wrong impression of my experience. Technically, no, I’d never taken a formal piano lesson before, but (and this held great importance in my seven-year-old mind), I lived in proximity to my sister’s playing, which was very good. The lie earned me a volume of impossible music. A system of horizontal lines that looked like fencing, and dots like scattered ants. I sat, silent, at the piano. Ms. Vanderhooft watered her ferns.

 

◊

 

Now, at fifty, I wish I’d been a journalist, or someone whose job it is to name paint colors. Instead, I have a piano studio of my own. I have a few Vanderhooftisms: I angle my grand like Ms. Vanderhooft did, over a Persian rug, like she had. I write students’ assignments like she did, using an extravagant, looped cursive. I have a fern. But the similarities end there. I’m less formal than Ms. Vanderhooft, and surely less intimidating.

 

My personal life is different too. Granted, Ms. Vanderhooft never shared much about her personal life, but I know she never married, which means her husband never suddenly landed his dream job, four states away. She never moved with him, closing her piano studio the week of her twenty-sixth wedding anniversary. She never, in the midst of unpacking, discovered his affair—the result of his sloppy texting. She never repacked her things. Never left him. She never attempted to relaunch her studio with an email sent from a bathroom floor. She never typed “Returning to Virginia” in a subject line, never wrote “leaving my husband” underneath, and she never, to my knowledge, found herself referencing a Gloria Gaynor song to let people know she was just fine.

 

◊

 

I slid the U-Haul into park sometime after dawn. The drive is a blur. I remember some gas station coffee. I remember toggling the radio: on to fill the silence, off to cut the noise, back on to fill the silence. I followed some vanity plates—a BCHLVER, a XOXO4U, a SATAN2, which begs the question. According to TikTok’s Therapy Keith, my mental fog is normal.

 

◊

 

I’ll be reoccupying the marital home while we sort out the terms of the divorce. The house didn’t sell in the month I was gone. My sister calls this circumstance a “God thing.” The place is a faux colonial, nestled in a neighborhood of shaded lawns but leafless driveways. Bucolic by way of tedium. I’m not the ideal resident. The HOA leaves me periodic notes: unapproved shutter color (blue), unapproved door color (also blue), unapproved mailbox, unapproved mailbox flag. This note, taped to my front door, reads, simply: “brick grout.” My married self would have laughed. I swing open the door and shove the letter into my pocket. It isn’t funny.

 

I unpack the studio first—the room just off the entry. I need the money. I roll the piano’s port side against the front windows and set my teaching chair to its right. I push our—my—dining table to a side wall and stage it as a workspace—lamp, laptop, calendar, candy dish. I mount a whiteboard low, just above the baseboards, and fill a basket with a rainbow of chubby, dry-erase markers. Three days later, I’m back in business.

 

◊

 

Owen, age eight, arrives at three. His wavy, red hair has deepened to maroon in the month I was away. I square the welcome mat with my foot as his mother escorts him up the driveway. She has him captured in a sideways embrace—the kind used in hostage situations.

 

“Hi, Owen!” I say.

 

No response.

 

“I have candy. On the desk.”

 

His mother leans in. “O is not exactly enthusiastic about returning to lessons.”

 

She turns to leave. I compliment her sweater.

 

Inside, Owen is standing over the dish of Jolly Ranchers. He has his investigation down to four economical motions:

 

Select, unwrap, lick, return.

 

Select, unwrap, lick, return.

 

I offer him a dry one and tip the rest into the trash.

 

He’s easily the least talented student I’ve ever taught. It isn’t just that Owen lacks some innate musical ability. The problem is his dislike for piano, which verges on histrionic. Today, his presentation is dermatological. He rubs his ears while we chat. (School was “fine.” His weekend was also “fine.”) He chases the itch down his back, twisting left, then right, like a toy on a swivel. I bribe him with dinosaur stickers before thumbing to the easiest piece I can find: “Mission to Mars.”

 

“Curve your fingers,” I say. He extends them. Rigid.

 

He and I have been at this impasse since his first lesson. Almost two years ago. “Play on your tips,” I’ve said. “Be gentle,” I’ve said. I’ve demonstrated, using a feathery voice. Last spring, we spent half a lesson lying on our backs, curling our hands into the soft domed shapes that “all good pianists have.” But the corrections never take.

 

“Okay,” I stop him. “Those are all the right notes. Well done on that. But this is ‘Mission to Mars,’ yeah?” I say. “And outer space has no gravity.”

 

No response.

 

“Right?”

 

I glance at the clock. Ten minutes have passed.

 

“So, float like an astronaut, on the tips of your fingers,” I say, my hands rising. “Weightless,” I add, hoping he’s interested.

 

He’s not. What evolves instead is an argument about gravity. Where it exists, where it doesn’t. I grab my phone and Google “gravity in space,” knowing the conversation should never have gotten this far. He sits cross-legged, listening, then parries. He has a rare condition, he tells me, making it painful for him to play with relaxed hands. It is especially excruciating—I assume this based on the tortured face he makes—for him to play with anything approximating curved fingers.

 

His medical revelation brings us to 3:30 p.m. I hand him his books, hold open the door. His mother waves. I wave back. I am a charlatan.

 

◊

 

A box from my husband arrives just after eight. Inside is the nub of a Maybelline brow pencil, two hair elastics, and four loose cotton balls. The postage on the top of the box reads $18.30. I walk the box to the outside trash barrel, and the barrel to the street. I slide a frozen pizza into the oven, and key his credit card number into a dating website, in the box marked Method of Payment. The lifetime premium package runs $849 if you decline all promotional offers.

 

◊

 

My next day’s students are siblings. They live in my neighborhood, and from the window, I can see their approach. Mabel, thirteen, is walking down the middle of the street, hunched and pumping her arms against the weight of a large purple backpack. Her brother, Sebastian, two years younger and twenty yards back, is traveling at the edge, following the crack that separates the road from the gutter. The shoestring of his right sneaker is dragging and flapping through a collection of wet sludge. This appears to be the goal.

 

I have mixed feelings about Mabel. On the one hand, I admire her. Here is a young girl who thinks fast and speaks her mind. She dismisses conventions, from fashion to politeness, and never misses an opportunity to lead. On the other hand, she’s annoying.

 

She looks taller today and wears one of those harnessed safety sashes, the neon yellow kind worn by crossing guards.

 

“Hall monitor sash,” she corrects me, swinging her backpack to the floor. “It’s my job to tell the other kids where to go.” The typecasting is exquisite.

 

Sebastian enters just behind. His sneakers squeak across the entry before falling silent on the carpeted staircase, where he sits, then winks. Newly acquired skill. I wink back.

 

I spend most of Mabel’s lesson assigning new music and trying to sell her on an arrangement of “Red River Valley.” She’s never heard it, which is fair. They’re not exactly popular, these American ballades. I demonstrate the piece and some sensitive timing I hope she’ll notice.

 

“Beautiful tune, right?” I say, holding the final notes.

 

She retakes the bench. I wait while she squeezes hand sanitizer into her cupped palm.

 

“And it’s nothing you can’t handle, if you practice,” I say. I mean it as encouragement. “So, twenty minutes a day, six days a week. Yes?” I’m drawing a practice chart in her spiral assignment notebook as I talk.

 

She flips the sanitizer closed and returns it to her backpack.

 

“Right?” I say. “Twenty minutes a day?”

 

“Well … Ms. Bellamy, the thing is, we are really busy.”

 

I reach for my coffee.

 

“Busy with what?” I’m imagining acceptable answers: travel, surgery, a funeral.

 

“We’re going to Disney World.”

 

Travel. Very good.

 

“Nice!” I say. “When do you leave?”

 

“It’s next spring. The thing is, my parents and I are busy discussing how to break the news to my school.”

Short of full-time employment, I tell her, she’s not busy.

 

◊

 

During Sebastian’s lesson, I learn that I can teach while I construct a dating profile. I answer the “Basic Information” questions to a rhythmically bereft “Jingle Bells.”

 

Age: 50

 

Height: 5’2”

 

The music has stopped.

 

“Is it a space note or a line note?” I ask.

 

“Space?”

 

He finds his note and proceeds.

 

Astrological sign: Cancer

 

Children: grown

 

Pets: no

 

“Half notes get what?”

 

“Two beats.”

 

“Right. Start back at measure ten?”

 

Smoking: never

 

◊

 

By evening, my Bumble profile is almost complete. Under “Interests” I scroll through dozens of sports, none of which apply. Under “Going Out” I click “cafés.” I choose “cities” from another list, without understanding what the choice commits me to. I mull the last step—the “About Me”—while I flatten the moving boxes I’ve emptied. I carry the flattened boxes to the garage. Cardboard is stacked as high as a car, right in the place his sedan used to sit. Memories of the marriage leave me tired. Just tired. Therapy Keith says I haven’t reached the pain portion of my healing journey. I’m not encouraged.

 

I peck out the final entry just before midnight.

 

“Life is good but I’m looking for my person. If you like conversation and believe vulnerability is a superpower, I’d love to chat.

 

I wake up to thirty-three likes.

 

◊

 

On the phone with my sister, I read the options. “There’s Mustang, 52, University of Pennsylvania. Under ‘About Me’ he writes ‘I am publish.’ ”

 

“But—” she starts.

 

“No, I thought of that. Born and raised in New Jersey. English is his first language.”

 

I scroll.

 

“There’s Trevor, 50,” I say. “He’s a ‘good man whose looking for a woman whose recovered from her woes of life and hasn’t gave up looking for someone to blame for what he done I am worthy of a chance.’ ”

 

“Doesn’t he mean someone who has gave up looking for someone to blame?” she says.

 

“Willie, 53, is a healer. But it says here he doesn’t have cable.”

 

“You’re being picky.”

 

“Under ‘Interests,’ this guy writes ‘COSTCO.’ And this is Bumble’s best. Just think about how good what’s-his-name would seem on a dating profile,” I say. “And he’s a complete asshole.”

 

I say “asshole” with a forced conviction, though. I mute the phone and pop another truffle into my mouth. Our marriage was easy. We didn’t say “I love you.” Literally, we never said it. We skipped straight to how much. “A line, not a segment,” we’d say, and it became our shorthand. Its comfort lay not just in the meaning of the phrase but in the privacy of its loop, closed tight as a hug. I said it in the mornings when he handed me coffee. I said it over my shoulder in the evenings, when he shooed me toward the piano. He said it as he left for work, holding the lunch I’d packed for him in the red-lidded Pyrex. He’d stopped taking my lunches toward the end, it occurs to me now. He’d been taking Lean Cuisines. He said he wanted to drop some weight. I take another truffle and unmute the phone to repeat the word “asshole.”

 

I hang up the phone and Google “affair and brain tumor.”

 

◊

 

I’m meeting a new student today. She’s an eleven-year-old girl who, for the last year, has had the misfortune of being taught piano by her mother.

 

“Ms. Bellamy, thank you for meeting with us,” the mother says. She seems to be working my name into each statement. “Yes, Ms. Bellamy, Gretchen has been playing for one year.” She looks at Gretchen, then back at me. “I brought her curriculum for you to see.” She pauses, and I think she’s forgotten, but she sneaks it in: “Ms. Bellamy.”

 

She unpacks a black valise as she speaks, fanning file folders across the piano lid like a nurse arranging surgical instruments. Blue for technique, yellow for theory, green for daily. Red is marked “FUN.” Then comes the binder—a cross-referencing system of curriculum, calendar, and progress reports. The presentation takes the better part of fifteen minutes, then she asks if she can lie down.

 

“Like, on a sofa?”

 

“Yes, Ms. Bellamy. Thank you.”

 

I point toward the den and turn to Gretchen. “Your mom feeling okay?”

 

She nods. “Oh, she’s good.”

 

I stare at Gretchen’s braids, plaits of curly hair, twisted into submission, and I imagine her mother, curled feline on my sofa, her head on my pillows, a drool stain forming. Pooling. I try standing her back up in my mind. She slumps at me, annoyed, then lies back down.

 

“What would you like to play?” I ask.

 

Gretchen thumbs to her latest piece. The notes, which come slowly, are like the words of a child learning to read—some right, some wrong, and none of them delivered in any relation to the next. I imagine my own halting delivery if I were asked to read aloud in Korean.

 

◊

 

My four o’clock student makes snoring noises over my instructions. He’s going to be quitting piano, he informs me. He needs more time for Pokèmon. Expect an email from his parents, he says, lying on the bench. “I will check my email every day,” I say, speaking to his eyelids.

 

4:30 p.m. refuses to use his third fingers, what non-pianists call middle fingers. “My parents wouldn’t want me to,” he says. “Sticking out your third fingers is short for a bad word.” I tell him that this rule doesn’t apply to pianists. He brightens. I worry he’s misunderstood.

 

Five o’clock draws me an army of stick men on my whiteboard, rather than the quarter notes we are studying. Through a line of innocent questioning, I discover that the men are not holding swords, as I had assumed.

 

◊

 

My 5:30 p.m. is an adult student. His name is Bill Dean, which is how he refers to himself. BillDean. He’s a retired Air Force colonel and fought in Vietnam. “A fighter pilot,” he adds, during introductions. BillDean is a spry eighty, with that wealthy fisherman look—tight white beard, pressed chinos, a half-zipped fleece—like Kenny Rogers advertising for Orvis. His reenrollment gave me some dread, but he pays on time.

 

“Now, Hannah, it’s hard for old BillDean to find this high note,” he narrates as he plays, “so sometimes I take a moment.”

“I get it.” I nod. “Try moving your hand earlier, during this rest,” I say, pointing.

 

“Now, listen,” he says, shaking his head.

 

“Look, Bill. There’s no point in playing complex music until your hands move properly. Think of it as protocol. You wouldn’t fly without completing the flight check, would you?”

 

He smiles and calls me Darlin’.

 

I assign “Pink Polly.”

 

◊

 

Therapy Keith wants me to establish a routine. I choose coffee. Coffee and Bumble. Frankly, I’m surprised by the number of bare-chested men I see online. Some bare-chested men hold beers toward the camera. Some hold recently caught fish. Others hold recently caught fish and beer. Then there are photos of bare-chested men leaning against their cars. Or their trucks. Others are on their motorcycles. One bare-chested gentleman straddles his motorcycle, holding what appears to be his infant daughter.

 

◊

 

McKinley, ten, is sobbing. Her parents have lied to her. And she’s pretty sure she “can never trust them again in her whole life because who would lie to their own child?” She repeats “own chiiiild” like a grieving mother. She sinks into silent-sob territory, and I wait for the breath that follows before offering her a chocolate. From what I can piece together, McKinley has spoken to Riley in the other fourth grade. Riley has an older brother who has a friend who has declared Santa to be “sus.”

“What?” I say, but the jig is up.

 

“It’s a trick.” Her eyes are still brimming. “It’s all from Target.”

 

I nod sympathetically and redirect her to the lesson. McKinley manages to lose herself in the music for a few minutes before her jagged inhales return.

 

“Talk to your parents,” I say, handing her another chocolate.

 

“I’ll sit them down after dinner,” she says, handing back the foil.

 

My own dinner is another frozen pizza. I add the black olives he always hated. Here is the upside of my broken marriage. Olives. I eat and load my plate into the dishwasher. Then I pause to remove my wedding band. What’s left behind is an indentation more noticeable than the ring itself.

 

◊

 

Noon today marks seven weeks since I received his text—the one meant for some unknown woman. I feel a stinging in my chest. Therapy Keith says it’s important to observe these sensations without trying to change them. As if changing them were possible.

 

I marvel that so many people have weathered this situation. It’s a little like you feel after you deliver a baby. For weeks, you see other mothers and think, really? You did this too? I hung pictures today, arranged a bookshelf. I sprayed some Lemon Pledge. My mother called this effort “puttering.” I suspect she puttered to lift her mood. It works a bit. I even find the courage to sit at the piano. But Mozart triggers memories of college practice rooms, closet-sized spaces, just large enough for a piano and a bench—and in our case, his bended-knee proposal. I can’t touch the Schubert he liked to hum, or the Debussy I was learning the day of his text. I play a scale and close the lid.

 

◊

 

Owen’s maroon hair bobs down my driveway. He’s unescorted today and claims to have practiced every day since his last lesson.

 

It’s impossible, since his music has been sitting on the lid of my piano all week. I say so, pointing to his books. “I did it by memory,” he says.

 

The noises that follow have no resemblance to the assignment, but his commitment to the moment is absolute. It is, in a way, the most impressive performance I’ve ever witnessed.

 

◊

 

I unpack the last two cardboard boxes tonight and find things I wish I hadn’t. Pressed flowers, loose pictures. One of us at nineteen, sharing an Orange Julius, another of us standing in front of our first house. The second box contains our wedding album. I flip to the final page, but backing into our memories is no safer. A candid photo stares back, one someone snapped as we left the reception. We’d made it as far as his Camry, rice in my veil. We’re beaming. I look at my eyes, staring back at me. And his. I see no guile.

 

I haul both boxes to the street.

 

◊

 

According to one website, a ring indentation can linger for a year, even two. “Please avoid any ring on your indented finger, until your finger has returned to its normal shape.”

 

No problem.

 

◊

 

Mabel’s “Red River Valley” is still unrecognizable. The problem is her pace. “It’s sluggish,” I say, watching a fine mist soak the boxes at the curb. “You’re sauntering.”

 

“I don’t know what that means,” she says, slow-blinking.

 

“Like, wandering. And you can’t just wander from note to note whenever you feel like it.”

 

“I can.”

 

“All right, you can, but wandering disrupts the flow. Do you know the song ‘Anti-Hero’?”

 

She exhales. A curt puff. “Okay, obviously. But what if Taylor just … meandered?”

 

“It’s me, Hi, I’m,” I sing, then stop.

 

“the”

 

“problem”

 

“it’s”

 

“Oh my god,” she says.

 

Sebastian hasn’t practiced either. He’s more interested in studying his feet. I watch the clock as he mashes the pedals, raising, lowering, and raising the damper mechanism. When the novelty wears off, I hand him his music. The “Jingle Bells” that follows is predictably slow and, like the previous week’s effort, sounds nothing like “Jingle Bells.” I squirm through his notes, each suspended from the time-space continuum. In the time it takes him to peck out a disjoined o’er the fields we go, I’ve written a grocery list. I straighten books to his laughing all the way, and by his bells on bobtails ring, I give in, feeding him answers, like the Google Maps voice.

 

“Yield for the whole note.”

 

“Proceed four beats.”

 

“Your destination is on the right.”

 

◊

 

I’m getting nowhere with BillDean either.

 

“If you’d curve your fingers, lower your wrists, and count the beats, you’d be playing the hell out of ‘Pink Polly,’ ” I say, but he’s already shaking his head.

 

“Goddamn it, Hannah.”

 

“What, Bill?”

 

He’s a fighter pilot, he reminds me. He wants to play “goddamned classical music.” Good music, he emphasizes as he reaches into his bag. “Good” comes down to two selections for him: “Danny Boy” and “The Man from Snowy River” (the titular movie’s theme song).

 

“The Man from Snowy River” is eleven pages long. It’s dense and difficult. If BillDean isn’t ready for the complexity of “Cat in the Hat,” this “Snowy River” is his Finnegans Wake. “Danny Boy” is no better.

 

“Now just listen,” he tells me.

 

Over the next ten minutes, BillDean finds a dozen notes—first on the page, and then on the keyboard. He’s bent and mumbling as he pecks, and most of what he says is inaudible. I catch a “Christ Almighty” and something about being a “goddamned patriot.”

 

◊

 

My attorney calls. If asshole and I can agree on the financial split, I can be divorced in thirty days. It’s been sixty-one days since we’ve spoken. Sixty-two days ago, my biggest fear was him dying first.

◊

 

I have noticed an unrealistic number of hikers on Bumble. Given the hundreds of times I’ve read “hiking” and “climbing,” every trail in Virginia should be jammed with middle-aged men.

 

The students are using my whiteboard as a kind of message center now. They’ve partitioned off a corner for me, which was thoughtful, and have asked me to keep my instructional diagrams within the confines of a wavy-line-and-dot pattern. The concept is the work of Haven, a fifth-grade girl with beautiful penmanship and inexhaustible organizing propensities. I agreed to the request, because why not. Besides, so far at least, I like the board’s content. Today’s entries include the creation of a book exchange by a boy who needs Book Three of the Warrior Cats series, a nice drawing of a dragon, and two uplifting reminders: “Find The Music You Love,” one student has written, encircling the words in a flowering vine. “It’s okay if you mess up,” another assures, the words speech-bubbling from a toothy orange sun wearing shades. Haven noticed the theme too. She roped the sentences off with more wavy lines and slapped the word ENCOURAGEMENT at the top.

 

◊

 

The blue minivan in the driveway means that Gretchen and her napping mother are here. My mouth is moving as I quietly plead for Mom to stay in the car, but Therapy Keith is wrong about manifesting your desires though positive thought.

“I’ll set my alarm,” she calls, walking toward the den.

 

◊

 

I spend the evening eating olives directly from the jar. A lot of the Bumble profiles I read start with the same line: “Looking for my partner in crime.” Men who say this are the same men who choose Bumble’s prompt “the quickest way to their heart.” Then they all write the same answer: “through my chest.” I’m developing a gender-wide ick.

 

I head for the stairs, flipping off lights, locking doors. Daily tasks remain oblique marital references. I linger by the piano, reaching to play a phrase, then sit, pajamaed, to play another. I pick Mozart for its rationality, but my playing sounds severe.

In the morning, I trim the Christmas tree. It doesn’t take long. The ornaments are ironic now. I unwrap “Our First Home” from its tissue paper and send it sailing. The twenty-five silver bells, etched with dates, make sickening thunks as they hit the back of the kitchen trash can.

 

◊

 

Mabel has practiced. You’ve got to hand it to her. Her “Red River Valley” is solid.

 

“I like what you’ve done with it,” I say. “The piece flows now—like musical sentences, telling the story. What do you think?”

“They’re not really sentences, though.”

 

And here we go.

 

“No, that’s true. The musical term we should be using is ‘phrase.’ ”

 

“Yeah, I don’t think of them as phrases, either.”

 

“Well, but they are phrases, actually.”

 

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

 

“Not maybe. That’s what they are. Those black lines over the notes are phrase markings.”

 

Silence.

 

“By definition.”

 

“Mmm.”

 

“What, mmm? It’s a fact.”

 

“It’s a fact to you.”

 

“It’s a fact, period. Unchangeable.”

 

“No, yeah. Unchangeable to you.”

 

I reach for my coffee and picture Mabel as Napoleon, jerking the crown from the hands of the Pope.

 

“It’s an F-sharp here,” I point. “Not F-natural,” I say. “As you played it.”

 

“What the fuck,” she mutters.

 

◊

 

BillDean is outraged again. He wants his country back. He’s sick to death of safe spaces and pronouns and everyone and their goddamned woke.

 

“Woke?” I say.

 

He’s just come from a rally. “The Governor was there and he goddamned loves us. He thanked us and thanked us. No goddamned government is going to take my guns, and I’d love to see them try.”

 

He sounds like Yosemite Sam.

 

◊

 

I scroll Bumble while the French press steeps. Therapy Keith would appreciate the consistency of my schedule.

“He’s standing next to a tank,” I say when my sister picks up. “In an ascot.”

 

“Stop,” she says.

 

“And get this,” I continue, reading the paragraph beneath the picture. “‘SWIPE LEFT if you work for the GOVERNMENT, are a scammer, STALKER, timewasting MORON, obsessed ex and her ‘entourage,’ or ENTITLED VEGAN LOSER.’”

 

“Just no.” My sister sounds sleepy.

 

I message him anyway.

 

“Oh,” he writes, “Those aren’t categories. Those are individual people. They know who they are.”

 

“Do you ever worry you seem, I don’t know, aggressive?”

 

He thanks me for being ladylike.

 

It’s not just the tank guy. “I’m sick of most of you,” one profile begins. “I’m not here to save you from your boring-ass life,” another warns. “Please be capable of intelligent conversation,” one specifies. There’s nothing wrong with that last request, I guess, except that there is.

 

◊

 

My final student this evening is also my youngest. The boy is five, with tiny blue Crocs and a pregnant mom in tow, her spine bowed into the signature S of the third trimester. I don’t interact with many expectant mothers. I did when I was younger, but I’ve aged out of knowing the latest in maternity fashion or baby gear. My ideas of newborn gizmos would strike her as my mother’s struck me: out of touch. The woman is having a girl, she tells me. But sometime during the list of possible baby names—Harper, Daphne, Pippa—the avalanche happens. Feelings first, followed by discernable thoughts. Memories. The work stories he shared. The reoccurring names. Name. My ears begin to ring. And like finally seeing the image in one of those random dot auto-stereograms, those Magic Eye pictures, you wonder how you ever missed something so plain. Because what pregnant woman calls her boss between contractions?

 

“Wren’s in labor,” he’d said, walking back into the room a few minutes later. “Dilated to four,” he said, checking the ringer on his phone.

 

We visited Wren the following week. Rang her doorbell. Gift in hand. I greeted the baby first, then handed Pippa to my husband. He held her all evening. On the way home, he talked about the baby. When we pulled into our driveway a few minutes later, he was still talking about her. Until suddenly he wasn’t.

 

“I sent Wren an email today,” he said. “A forward, really. Of our first office interaction.”

 

He’d titled the forward “Look How Far We’ve Come.”

 

By the time I say all of this to my sister, later in the evening, I’ve thought of a parade of other incidents. Altered routines, suspicious locations, dodgy answers.

 

She says nothing.

 

“If you saw this many clues in a movie you’d be insulted,” I say, filling the silence, then I pause too. Because there’s no explaining how sick you feel when you realize someone’s found pure joy at your expense.

 

“The baby visit,” she says, finally. “How long ago was that?”

 

She’s trying to construct a timeline, but I already have.

 

Three years.

 

◊

 

I spend the evening writing him an email.

 

“Hi” gets replaced with “Hello” then changed back to “Hi.”

 

Delete.

 

No salutation.

 

“How dare you,” I begin.

 

Delete.

 

“It has come to my attention,” I write.

 

Delete.

 

“I know that it’s Wren,” I write.

 

Then, hands shaking, I delete that too.

 

“I want the house.”

 

He waits twenty-four hours, then calls. I suspect his attorney has advised him, pointing out the danger of admitting anything in print. I put the phone on speaker, and set it on the coffee table, speaking to it from the doorway. Fifteen seconds later, the house is mine.

 

◊

 

I’ve had it with Owen’s playing. It isn’t improving, and frankly, he’s making me question my ability to teach. My new plan is to ignore his fingers. I’ll focus on his sound.

 

“Can you do it?” I say, playing a string of round tones.

 

Owen plays his notes. Each is a cataclysmic event.

 

“Let’s play echo,” I say. “I’ll be the loud shout, and you’ll be the soft echo.”

 

He rubs his neck. Overhand. Underhand. Overhand again.

 

“Know what an echo is, buddy?”

 

I demonstrate, shouting “echo.”

 

He shouts back.

 

I echo him quietly.

 

He shouts again.

 

◊

 

The staircase carpeting is loose. As Owen leaves, I give the lowest corner a yank. Disintegrated carpet backing flies up and rains down on my sneakers.

 

During Mabel’s lesson, I pull some more.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Nothing,” I call. “Your pedaling is late. Listen for clarity. One more time, please.”

 

The lowest step is free, and I’m admiring my own work when the playing stops again.

 

“Was that any better?” I’m asking because I forgot to listen, but she hears it as criticism and plays again. I walk to the kitchen for the dustpan.

 

Gretchen’s mother steps over the tiny demolition and sighs.

 

“I have a favor to ask you,” she says, pinning her hair while she talks. Oh god. I think. She wants to take a bath.

 

She asks me to drive her teenage son to an orthodontist appointment.

 

“No,” I say, and sigh back.

 

◊

 

“Now just let me talk for a minute,” BillDean says, interrupting his own monologue. “It’s important that you understand what old BillDean is thinking when he plays.”

 

I count backward from ten before standing. I can see the lowest two risers. Pitted, raw wood. “Did you get my email?” I lie.

“I don’t read goddamned email.”

 

“No? About the rate increase?”

 

◊

 

I pull carpet all evening. I’m wearing the asshole’s work gloves and using his vice grips. I took his toolbox when I left him. Traded, really. He got my wedding gown, which I assume he’s found by now. I hung it in his closet on my way out.

 

◊

 

I don’t know what percentage of Bumble men use fake names, but I suspect the number is high. Mr. Love just wants someone to listen to him. Big Daddy gets “way too excited about God.” Sometimes the fake names are too explicit, forcing Bumble to moderate the information. These men are renamed, aptly, as “Moderated.” Moderated, 54 is “brutally honest.” Moderated, 49 is “fluent in sarcasm.” Moderated, 53 “isn’t angry.” I wonder what he isn’t angry about.

 

◊

 

The carpeting on the third stair is impossibly stuck. It’s affixed by something called a tack strip, which I hadn’t encountered yet. I pry it up with a butter knife, but the removal leaves a deep trench in the wood.

 

“Wood filler,” my sister says.

 

“Maybe,” I say. “There should be a name for that heavy feeling, ya know?” I cradle the phone, tipping the omelet pan, watching the egg turn white.

 

“What feeling?”

 

“You know, that feeling you have where you’re grief-stricken, but you just propel yourself forward anyway? I bet the Germans have a word for it. One of those multisyllabic compound words. Google it.”

 

“German words for complex emotions,” she says. I can hear her typing. “I see leibeskummer, but—”

 

“What’s it mean?”

 

“Translates to ‘lovesickness.’ ”

 

“Gross. No. Needs more grief.”

 

“‘Grief,’ ” she says slowly. We’ve got Trauer.”

 

“Okay, but add the dragging around.”

 

“She laughs. ‘Perseverance.’ Beharren.”

 

Okay. Smash them together.

 

“Beharrentrauer?”

 

“Yeah. Closer.”

 

◊

 

The students are asking where my husband is. Not that they typically saw him during their lessons. Maybe they’ve noticed that my wedding band is gone, or spotted the indentation it’s left. Or maybe the timing of the questions is coincidental. Regardless, it’s the fourth time this week I’ve felt ashamed to be single, and I’m pretty sure this makes me a terrible feminist.

 

Three students ask if I “live alone.”

 

“Live alone now?” one says.

 

“Where’s your husband?” one blurts.

 

I should say, “I don’t have a husband,” or, “Open your music.”

 

Instead, I say, “He’s at work.”

 

◊

 

Owen is dropped off by a sitter today. It is date night for his parents.

 

Mabel and her brother are staying with an aunt. Their parents are on a cruise. BillDean tells me that he and Hildy have been married for fifty-two years.

 

This makes me exactly half as lovable as BillDean, mathematically speaking.

 

Therapy Keith says your worth isn’t wrapped up in another’s perception of you. But his need to say it suggests a lot of people believe otherwise.

 

◊

 

I have eleven new likes this morning. One especially torpid-looking man dates only “fit” women.

 

“How fit?” I type, clicking past a photo of him, his left hand deep in a bag of Funyuns. “Like, how far would I need to be able to run? Is there a distance or pace I should train toward?”

 

He asks for a full-length picture.

 

I send a photo of Emily Blunt.

 

◊

 

AlligatorBoots closes his profile paragraph with an apology: “Unable to send pictures of p3ni$. Camera lacks wide-angle lens.”

 

◊

 

I assign Mabel a beautiful arrangement of “Greensleeves.”

 

“Some people think Henry the Eighth wrote the tune,” I say, but then wonder how accurate this is.

 

“Divorced, beheaded, died,” she begins.

 

She’s right. We substitute “Carol of the Bells.”

 

“Set your right hand to autopilot,” I call from the front hall, looking up the staircase. “Because it’s just the same four notes over and over. And the best part?” I say, picking up the carpet’s edge and yanking. “You get to clamp the pedal down. B-flat, third finger, and right foot on the pedal. Keep your heel down and go for it.”

 

I know more about the other woman than I want to admit. I know from him that she’s the youngest child of a single mom. I know she grew up in Pensacola and spent her summers on the beach.

 

I fold the carpet under and tighten his vice grips.

 

Hark how the bells

 

Sweet silver bells

 

“Yes on the notes,” I call. “But no to your rhythm. Two eighths in the middle. Think long-short-short-long.

 

She carries on. By repetition four, it’s improving.

 

I know she carries Cheez-Its in her purse. Is addicted to ChapStick.

 

“Yes, but how many measures, Mabel? Count the bars before your left hand comes in.”

 

“Eight?”

 

“Good. Start again?”

 

The scar on her neck is from a dog bite, and she didn’t even have the dog put down. That’s how he always put it. Didn’t even have the dog put down.

 

The fourth stair releases with a pop. I reach for my butter knife to pry up the tack strip. She rode horses as a kid. Crushed on her middle school band director. Loves Gilmore Girls.

 

Christmas is here.

 

Bringing good cheer

 

To young and old

 

Meek and the bold

 

“Wow, yes,” I call. “Start again, but soft pedal with your left foot this time. Let it off in measure five and build.”

Except for a missing E-flat, she’s error free.

 

Her curtain bangs were his idea. So was finishing her doctorate. “One of the most talented up-and-comers in the field.”

“Ambitious,” he called her.

 

Merry Merry Merry Merry Christmas

 

Merry Merry Merry Merry Christmas

 

Mabel’s scale passage is halting, but every note is there.

 

“Thumb under on the G.”

 

I set down the knife, clamping his vice.

 

She plays the passage again, then again. It’s almost fluid.

 

“Now from the beginning,” I say, removing his gloves and descending the stairs.

 

I listen from my chair and smile when she’s done. She’s on her way. The piece just needs continuity now—the kind that organizes small moments into something bigger.

 

“Long lines, okay?” I say.

 

She nods.

 

I tuck her copy of “Carol of the Bells” into her spiral notebook and scrawl “you’ve got this” across the top.

 

◊

 

I pull carpet all evening, first with his gloves, then without. I don’t know when he started bringing her home in his mind, but I see now that she was there. In the mornings when he packed the Lean Cuisines. In the evenings on his walks. She sat with us at dinner. She watched him barely eat. And in those lapses when he hardly spoke, so lost in thought, I know now that he was speaking to her. She was with him when he couldn’t sit still and when he worked too long, even from our sofa, and somehow, in his duplicitous state, she was in his mind when he fell asleep with his head on my lap, the last night I ever saw him. Maybe she was in his mind when he handed me coffee or ate lunch from the red-lidded Pyrex. Maybe she stood with him while he cleaned the kitchen, shooing me toward the piano.

 

I worked my way to the top of the staircase today. Below me, Mabel played her “Carol of the Bells.” It’s cohesive now, a proper narrative, and she knows it.

 

“Well?” I said, catching her eye as I dragged the carpet out the door.

 

“Good,” she said. “I’m playing lines.”

 

And not segments.

Kira Compton 

 

Twenty minutes before gunfire erupts in the La Villa High School cafeteria, Cass is getting high in the parking lot. This is normal, at least junior year. Since summer, she’s been sort of dating this stoner, Lacey, a senior with a beautiful tan and shaggy bleached hair and a single dangly earring that twists in the wind. She’s so cool it makes Cass sweat, her bra sticking to her skin and a faint musky smell coming from her armpits. Lacey’s perfection bleeds into something unreal, like the teenagers in movies played by twenty-something, hundred-pound actresses. When Lacey smiles, her California teeth shining in the sun, Cass thinks this must be love. And if this is love, it is new and startling, and she is terrified she will ruin it. The worry runs a tired track in her brain. The weed is nice because it is free, yes, but mostly because it stops the background noise in her skull.  

 

They lie side by side in the bed of Lacey’s truck. Lacey finishes the joint while Cass pretends to watch something on her phone. Onscreen, a large, beautiful girl with a septum piercing mouths a song Cass half remembers. Lacey hums along, drawing circles on Cass’s shoulders. Her fingers are normal fingers, chewed nails and calluses, but they sear her skin. If this isn’t love, she doesn’t know what is.  

 

Lacey says something then, her voice raspy with the edges of sleep—she won’t be fully awake until third period. Cass sets the phone between their heads. The song plays on a loop, soft and catchy. Lacey’s tongue pokes out between her teeth, and Cass chases it with her lips.  

 

Probably, that final moment wasn’t so perfect. Morning breath, sunless skies, the pressing need to piss. But this is how Cass remembers it. 

 

◊

 

The exit wound is clean, but the doctors keep Cass in the hospital for six days. The bullet pierced her left shoulder, skating past arteries and bones. The scar on her back will be horrific but superficial. The ER nurse who rebandages her wound tells her how lucky she is. A centimeter to the right, her shoulder would have shattered. A centimeter to the left, she’d have bled out on cafeteria tile. Dead any other way, according to her nurses, her parents, the investigators that stream through her hospital room and pepper her with questions she doesn’t know how to answer. They are unsatisfied with the truth, no matter how many times she repeats it: I don’t remember, I don’t remember, I don’t remember. At least, she doesn’t remember anything worth talking about.   

 

The first day nurse is vigilant with the squat television in the corner of the hospital room, keeping it tuned to sitcoms with chattering laugh tracks. The nurse on day two doesn’t care, so Cass watches the news stations. The shooting segments are nearly identical, down to how they begin: eight smiling faces lined up in a row, school pictures from a happier day. Their names are never there, but Cass doesn’t need names. Ms. Rainier, the lunch lady who wore her hair in intricate twists, who must have spent an hour getting ready the morning she died; Mr. Gonzalez, her freshman English teacher who told her she would love Franny and Zooey; Tim Robinson, who made fun of her belly in middle school; Al Jones, who was always sleeping, always wearing the same wooly black sweatshirt; Tina Holden, who had been drawing terrible anime for years but was just now starting to get good, even had a few thousand followers on Instagram; Tori Holden, beautiful, untouchable, who wouldn’t be caught dead around her weird sister; Mark Patterson, that first, false male crush; Lacey Gold. It’s Lacey’s junior year picture, back when Lacey and Cass knew each other only in passing, before everything important came to pass. Her hair unbleached and long, a respectable shirt creased at the neck. A small, knowing smirk: this is just a photo for the fireplace mantle, something to keep the parents happy.  

 

Sometimes the station throws Cass’s picture up. It’s from freshman year. An XXL Metallica shirt pools around her, a band she’d been so sure she’d love forever but stopped listening to not long after picture day. They play sound bites of her mother’s weepy voice over the photo. It’s what every parent dreads. I’m so fortunate my baby girl is still here.  

 

No stations talk about the shooter. They’ve stopped naming shooters in the last few years, an attempt to withhold the badge of infamy given to people like Harris and Klebold. Now there is just one Shooter, a shadowy figure lurking in movie theaters and kindergartens. Always a lone male, usually killed on site by his own hand or someone else’s.  

 

The news loop repeats itself until Lacey’s face is imprinted in Cass’s vision. When her mother visits at the end of the day, she snaps the television off. Cass still hears that weepy, interviewed version of her mother, more vivid and sincere than the woman in the hospital chair.  

 

◊

 

The first day nurse is back, and Cass is no longer allowed to wallow in the news. High on morphine, she spends the third day on her phone. With the notifications muted, social media offers a spot of low tide. She floats through an endless stream of videos. Cooking recipes with bright yellow rice and perfectly smashed avocado; craft tips for knitting and crochet, watercolor and oil; beautiful women gliding over red carpets, voluptuous gowns clouding behind them; parsed-down, slowed-down movie moments with the wrong music playing; strangers mouthing last month’s most popular tweet; cats leaping on tables and knocking over vases, glasses, laptops; a thousand lessons on wine, lifting, baby seals, traveling solo, tattooing, social justice, DIY home remodeling, how to 5 to 9 before the 9 to 5, healthy eating, meditating, holding on and letting go. She scrolls and scrolls and finds herself.  

 

It’s an eight-second loop of the moment she burst out of the cafeteria. There’s a filter, making her bright and smooth, as though someone has pulled plastic wrap over her skin and tugged. Her cheekbones are jagged. Her eyes sparkle. The blood on her neck seems strategically placed. Over the loop, the chorus of Sia’s “Unstoppable” plays on repeat.  

 

It seems impossible that someone caught this on camera, but here it is, cycling on her screen. Another student captured what they could from the other side of the street. Cass feels nauseous. She feels something else too, wanton and unnamed. She watches herself escape to safety again and again and again. 12.7K likes. 2.3K comments.  

 

She flips to her notifications, which she has been soundly ignoring. Her Instagram is private, and she’d assumed the little pink dot was simply well wishes from friends and family. Instead, there are thousands of follow requests, hundreds of messages. She’s brave, a hero, lucky. She’s been tagged countless times, has her own hashtag now, #cassandrablake. Turns out, someone was livestreaming everything that happened outside the cafeteria, and everything that happened inside.  

 

She flicks her phone off, pulls the pillow over her face, and screams. 

 

◊

 

The fourth day, Cass refuses visitors. She ignores the nurse’s gentle, probing questions. The TV in the corner stays off, the blank screen a wide and empty mouth.  

 

La Villa may not have the highest kill count or the youngest victims, but thanks to the livestream, her school has captured the eye of the nation. Tina Holden’s follower count has gorged itself, three hundred to thirty thousand (Tori Holden’s private page is not among the followers). The last photo Tina ever posted—a progress update on a drawing of a rose-haired anime girl—has gotten two thousand comments. Cass reads them all. This is so fucked and xoxo rest easy angel and i don’t know you but i am so so so scared and lord jesus, we humbly ask of you, jesus, that you will give them life again, for you are our lord jesus who is always with us even in the darkest of times, amen.  

 

When it gets overwhelming, she flips back to Instagram reels. Her usual recommendations are there, but she spent half an hour watching herself escape. The algorithm noticed. For every thirty reels, there’s one of her. Sometimes she is running out of the cafeteria or being carted into the hospital. Friends have leaked old videos, so there are reels of her jumping into oceans or laughing at lunch tables. Slowed versions of Cass and Lacey lean into each other as the song “Mary on a Cross” twinkles over them.  

 

There’s a version of Cass that’s outraged, but the rage feels young and muffled beneath a broader feeling, a heady sense of anticipation. Hundreds of messages sit luridly in her inbox, unopened. Strange numbers call, and she lets them slip to voicemail.  

 

That night, she goes to sleep early and dreams of The Shooter. Not the boy who shot her, but The Shooter, a vague and menacing figure in camo pants. He’s chasing her, but in the strange logic of dreams, she has her hands around the barrel of his gun and is pulling. Every time she wrestles the gun away from him, another one respawns in his hands, an AK-47 or an MR-16 or another string of letters and numbers she doesn’t understand. The dream doesn’t change. Just this endless chase and tug-of-war, a video loop that never ends.  

 

◊

 

On the fifth day, Cass unprivates her accounts.  

 

Her last post is from the summer, a beach day group photo. Her head is on Lacey’s shoulder. She remembers that Lacey’s earring kept getting in Cass’s face, and when she blew it away, Lacey giggled. This fascinated her—Lacey was too cool for giggling—so she blew on Lacey’s cheek again and again, repeating the experiment until their friends griped at them for ruining the photo. 

 

That evening, Cass has over fifty thousand followers. Huddled under hospital covers, she listens to the voicemails of strangers. Sponsorships, all from figureheads of companies she’s never heard of. She’s an influencer now, the face of something larger than herself. The voices offer condolences, tell her she’s a hero, and doesn’t she want to keep making a difference?  

 

She stands to make a life-changing amount of money. No more rent stress for mom, no need to work a second job. Cass will be able to move wherever she wants after high school—she won’t even have to finish high school, won’t ever have to go back if she doesn’t want to. She’ll bulldoze the cafeteria to the ground and build the Lacey Gold Memorial Garden in its place.   

 

It’s close to midnight when she chooses a number at random and calls. A woman picks up on the second ring. Her voice is metallic over the phone. When Cass signs her life away, she pictures flowers curling through the cracks of cafeteria tile: begonias and lilies, columbines and dead nettle.   

 

◊

 

Cass watches the livestream of the shooting just once, there on her final day in the hospital. 

 

Strike while the iron’s hot, she’d been told. They’ll only have the nation’s attention for so long, and if they want it to matter, they’ll need to be shocking: a livestream of a livestream with Cass watching, still threaded with IVs and a heart monitor. 

 

A woman with severe blonde hair has driven up from LA. She helps Cass get ready—brown dusting under her eyes, her hospital gown askew so that the edgings of her bullet wound are visible. In the mirror, Cass looks strangely beautiful. She’s become one of those twenty-year-old, hundred-pound actresses playing the movie version of herself. 

 

Before they go live, a company-hired therapist checks in with her over the phone. The therapist wants to make sure she is okay reliving the event. She’s sure, yes, okay, but the truth is that she won’t be reliving it—she hardly remembers living it.  

 

What Cass does remember: Her own sweat-stench. Ripe, pungent. She’d pissed herself, the urine soaking into her crotch, her thighs, making her dark jeans darker. She smelled like a wild animal, pure adrenaline. An ape sleeping inside her all this time, awakening in a frenzy and pounding against the inside of her chest: Survive this! Survive this! 

 

She remembers Tori curled over Tina. Hindsight tells her they are dead, but memory tells a different story. Tori shields Tina in a sister’s embrace, simple and protective. Maybe it was only at school that the sisters hated each other. Maybe, back home, they shared a bathroom, a bedroom, a common love for mint chocolate chip ice cream. Maybe they didn’t speak at school because they spent so much time speaking everywhere else. Maybe, back home, the love between them was endless. In her memory, Tori is still breathing.  

 

She remembers being shot, though in a mosaic sort of way, a kaleidoscope of red and orange, yellow and black. Iron in her mouth. Salt in her eyes. Something lancing her shoulder, vaulting her awake. Heat against her neck, gunmetal searing her hands.  

 

She doesn’t remember the shooter. She doesn’t remember taking the gun. She doesn’t remember the last thing Lacey said, the last important thing. Cass can picture the curl of Lacey’s lips moving up and down, but though she has run through the memory every night since, the words are gone. For the livestream to be worth anything, it would need to show her that. She can see it—the camera sliding out of the cafeteria, down the hall, through the parking lot. Sun striking the lens as it presses into the truck bed. Two girls curled into one another, center screen. Chapped lips. Meaningless noise. Lacey’s words, articulated clearly in the shell of her ear. Cass would hear it and know all there was to know. Everything they had been promised would come to pass. Yellow tassels and cheap wine and swollen feet and a boring middle age. They would get it all. The camera would watch them through the years, having no reason to pan to dark cafeteria doors.  

 

Bright lights shiver. The livestream begins. Cass watches what she can’t remember.  

R.M. Fradkin

 

We, the members of The Puzzle Committee, are here to help. You will stay until you complete the puzzle. No one will be allowed to leave until we have successfully completed the puzzle.

 

Snack breaks are allowed, within reason. If we suspect you are taking snack breaks to avoid working on the puzzle, your snack privileges will be revoked. Ditto for using the bathroom.

 

If you’re not sure whether two pieces fit together, we, The Committee, will decide. You say these are a perfect fit, and yet they wiggle. We know a fit when we see it, like pornography. See, these present not a shadow of a doubt. Nothing can come between these two.

That is why sometimes it is necessary to visit The Committee.

 

If you haven’t yet completed the border, might we recommend that as a good place to start? It’s always useful to circumscribe endless possibilities with an impenetrable border. Sorting out the edge pieces also gives extraordinary satisfaction. Filling in the border will take longer, of course, but we must not deny ourselves that sweet feeling of accomplishment.

 

At this point, there are several courses of action we could recommend. We might pursue an image/color scheme, in which the pieces are sorted and assembled based on their relative hues and whatever hints of object can be capitalized on. On the other hand, we might pursue a solely shape-based scheme in which the pieces are sorted like so:

 

The four-hole is a seeking, yearning piece, often frightening because of the gaping depth of his need.

One-knobs are aware they have but one thing to give, but they give it well.

The double-knob is the most perplexing, as he comes in the standard, opposite-wing variety, as well as the unbalanced varietal, which often tilts into irresponsibility.

Finally, we come to the triple and quadruple-knobs, the scarcest of our breeds:

These exotic birds know their worth and give themselves to the other pieces but rarely.

 

We could also pursue a hybrid image-based and shape-based scheme, but we might get mired in the quandary of whether to put a piece with his knobbed companions, or whether he should go with his color-mates—the mossy greens, for example, or the leafy ones.

 

To use the box or not to use the box. That question has absorbed us and inspired much debate in our ranks over the years. As The Committee itself has not come to a final decision on this matter, you may use the box for now, if you wish. However, you will have to endure the knowledge of having used the box and the resulting diminished sense of purpose for the rest of your life.

 

We notice some of you hover around the snack table longer than is absolutely necessary to procure provisions. We remind you of the potential consequences of these actions.

 

Although it may seem that we, The Puzzle Committee, have all the time in the world, in fact, we do not. Outside wait families, couples, organizations, hospital wards, and bands of friends who have come to us to help them make their puzzles whole. While perfection is our ultimate goal, perfection completed with a sense of urgency is preferable.

 

We, The Committee, are no strangers to unraveling. We lost some of our number in the acrimonious Boxers vs. Not-Boxers Schism of ’99, although we spend our waking hours and our not-inconsiderable mental powers fighting for cohesion. That is why no one can rest until every piece is together. That is why no one can leave.

Brendan Gillen

Charlotte lived in the Village, where the buildings shared narrow courtyards, so it was not a matter of neighbors seeing. Of course they saw. She sometimes waved. The uptight spinster across the street who pulled her curtains. The young men whose kitchen window was adjacent to her bedroom. They did not stare. They smiled giddily and waved and went about their business. Who knows what they said when they ducked out of sight? Charlotte didn’t care. Her days of giving a damn were long gone.

 

One afternoon, the police came. The knock was polite. Charlotte answered in her robe. She could have been their mother. They hardly looked old enough to drive, let alone carry weapons.

 

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” said the bearded officer. His nameplate read: Finn. He seemed to be in charge. “There’s been a report of a disturbance.”

 

She clocked the shaven one eying her figure, which she maintained with water aerobics.

 

“A disturbance?” Charlotte said. “Here?”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Finn said.

 

Charlotte wondered if one of them always spoke, if their roles were set, or if they sometimes traded.

 

 “I make a real effort to keep to myself,” she said.

 

“It has nothing to do with noise, ma’am,” Finn said.

 

The clean-shaven young man adjusted his belt. His radio chirped. His name was Bradford.

 

“There was a call that you’ve been going about your apartment in the, ah, nude and whatnot.”

 

Charlotte bit her cheek to keep from laughing. In the nude! For such a progressive city, New York’s sense of civic propriety was practically Victorian.

 

“I see,” she said. “Is it illegal? This is my home.”

 

“Not exactly, but if it continues to be a public disturbance—”

 

“Who was it that complained?”

 

“We can’t divulge that information, ma’am,” Finn said. But Charlotte knew. In some ways, she’d been waiting for it. She didn’t know the woman’s name, but they’d passed each other plenty of times on the street. In another life, they might have been friends. In this life, her neighbor was stoop-shouldered and severe, and she pushed her chaotic hoard of belongings around the neighborhood in a rolling cart.

“All we’re asking,” Finn continued, “is that you cover up.”

 

Instinctively, Charlotte released the clutch she held on the collar of her robe so that it fell open at her throat. Bradford stole a glance at her cleavage. Finn dropped his hand to his taser.

 

“Ma’am,” he said. “It’s a simple request.”

 

She thought of Donald. How could she not? His mustache. His overcoat. Always layered. Their marriage was full of love. Over thirty years. Toward the end there was no sex, not because they didn’t want it, but because of his condition. It worsened precipitously in the final months. He was hollowed out, hunched over. Clothes hung about him as though they’d been donated by a much bigger man. It was awful to see. Yet Charlotte had felt an undercurrent of liberation. An unburdening, a shedding of skin. She waited until Donald passed to express it. To do otherwise would have been cruel. She sold the house, bought the studio in the city. She began to paint, went for cocktails. It wasn’t even a year before she brought a man half her age back to the apartment. She was taking control of her grief. Of her life. She knew Donald would have understood. She’d given up her career at McCann to make their home, raise their boys. This was her time. Yes, he would have understood. She was certain. She was the only woman he’d ever loved.

 

“Let me ask you something,” Charlotte said to the officers. “Have either of you tried it?”

 

Finn cleared his throat. His hand twitched on the taser. “Ma’am?” he said.

 

“Walking around the house,” she said, “in the nude.”

 

Bradford swallowed. The arrowhead of his Adam’s apple dipped.

 

“Ma’am, this doesn’t have to be difficult,” Finn said, losing patience. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

 

“Oh, it’s not difficult at all,” she said. “You’d be surprised how good it feels. The world is constrictive enough.”

 

“I’ve tried it,” Bradford said, seeming to startle himself. “Sleeping naked, I mean.”

 

“See?” Charlotte grinned. She clapped involuntarily. Heat rose to her face. “And?”

 

“It was okay. Little chilly.”

 

“Enough,” Finn snapped. He’d been undermined.

 

“Oh, give it another shot, Bradford,” Charlotte said. “You too, Finn. Your wives or girlfriends or boyfriends, whatever, will notice the shift, trust me. Especially after a long day in those uniforms. Don’t they itch?”

 

“Wives,” Finn said, flustered. “Listen, if we get another complaint to this address? We won’t be so cordial.”

 

Charlotte looked Finn in the eye and smiled. He flinched, and she saw his guard drop. It was all very silly. The roles we convinced ourselves to play.

 

“That won’t be necessary,” Charlotte said. “Message is loud and clear. All I can say is that I hope you gentlemen find comfort in your own skin before it’s too late.”

 

“And I hope this is the last we see of each other,” Finn said. One of their radios crackled. “Good afternoon.”

 

Finn turned and made his way from the threshold. Bradford lingered a moment, and, ever so slightly, smiled, as if to say, Thank you. Then he ducked out of sight.

 

Charlotte closed the door, went to her nightstand, leaned against the bed. She picked up the framed photo of Donald, touched his face through the glass. He was squinting in the direct sunlight, ballcap pulled low, one of their last journeys to the desert.

 

“Miss you, love,” she said. “We would’ve had fun. I’d’ve loosened you up.” At least she would have tried. But had he never passed, would she have arrived here, at herself? It was impossible to know.

 

She went to the window and looked down on the street, the slow-moving traffic, the bustle and flow of a Manhattan afternoon. The spinster was not at her window, but Charlotte could see the tunneling squeeze, the decades of accumulation. She decided she would get dressed and go over there, try the third-floor buzzers until she found the right one. Maybe all the woman needed was someone to talk to, or, more likely, someone to listen.

 

For now, she closed the curtains against the glare, dropped her robe, studied her figure in the mirror. It was something you had to work for. Not the body, the love for it. That alone was worth the heartbreak.

 

“Oh, I hope you’re watching,” she said.

 

Then she danced to the song in her head, the one Donald loved most. A slow bolero, a languid ache, an invitation to the rest of your life.

On the 14th floor of an unremarkable Chicago skyscraper, fourteen women and two men sat in small cubicles receiving phone calls from people searching for intimacy in a place free from shame. And it wasn’t all people, if you want to be specific. It was men, mostly middle-aged men, mostly professional men, mostly white men, mostly meaning that from time to time, operators received calls from these men’s sons.

            Among the sixteen phone operators, a young woman sat three rows from the eastern wall in the second cubicle from the front desk. She, Sanié, wore her chemically red hair in an uncombed shag, a black T-shirt on which a dead, cartoon fish floated to the top of its tank, and loose black jeans that fit no part of her body. With a landline tucked between her shoulder and her ear, she online shopped from her cell, looking for a new walker for her baba. To her unique credit, she could multitask without pause, as though of two minds.

            “Oh daddy, yes, I’d love to fuck you in space,” she said to the caller, who allegedly used to be an astronaut. She said, “I wanna see your cock float up toward me in zero gravity,” and clicked through the screens toward her checkout.

            She’d already done the hard work of listening to the man’s problems for twenty minutes. That’s where the money was.

            Sanié said what she said on the phone with complete abandon, knowing that were she to break character, laugh, or hesitate, the person on the other line would hang up. Ultimately, it also made it more interesting for her, the experimentation with an alternative embodiment. They’d been on the phone for a little over ten minutes. If a customer hung up shortly after calling, it meant a lower average on her call time. A lower hourly rate for her. Currently, she averaged the third longest call time in the office, a fact she was not outwardly proud of though she occasionally imagined herself at the top of the list—to improve her hourly wage.

            While she told the anonymous man on the phone the planets they’d see, the aliens who might join in his fantasy, the meteors they’d narrowly avoid while leaving the ship on autopilot, an intruder claiming to be a pizza delivery man (one can imagine how clever he thought his disguise) was attempting to get past the front desk as the guard, David, repeatedly told him, “Man, you gotta have the name of whose pizza this is or you leave it with me.”

            When David called up, the receptionist, Sandra, whose voice had squeaked in an off-brand Barbie imitation since the ’70s, answered. She told him no one on the floor ordered a pizza from, and she hesitated, “Steve Buscemi’s.”

            Unsuccessful in his attempt, the intruder left the building and took out a slice of the sausage pie while leaning on one of the modern columns out front. The pizza was good, though cold. It was from the place on his block in Roger’s Park. He removed a strand of his oily black hair off the slice before taking a second bite.

            In the meantime, Sanié took another twenty minutes with her caller, creating subplots based on Star Wars that took them out of the original fantasy and into action. “Baby, figure out a condom while I fight back these Laputians, don’t stop touching yourself!” At thirty-four minutes, she surpassed her call average. When she was done, she asked Sandra if there were calls waiting to be picked up.

            “Nah, sweetie, we’ve been in a lull for the last twenty minutes or so.”

            At 6:00, bored husbands would be returning from their salaried jobs. Sanié could either leave to take calls from home or else hang out for another couple hours. She opted to leave. Coming into the office was mostly a way for her to get out of her parents’ house. She said goodbyes to Sandra and then David at the downstairs desk.

            As she left the building, she saw a man leaned against a column eating a pizza from the box. Putting on her headphones, she let him know he had sauce on his chin. He looked at her as she walked away then ran up, tapping her shoulder. She jumped back, said, “Fuck.”

            The man’s eyes lit. “It’s you!” He spoke with the intonation of a child. “I didn’t think I was going to find you!” He was panting. The pizza box was abandoned by the column. “I had the disguise and everything,” he continued.

            Sanié stopped, looked at his face. He looked Desi-ish. Someone whose family she grew up with, maybe. She asked him if she knew him, and he nodded vigorously, started talking about an encounter they’d had last week that she had no recollection of. Something about a trampoline. The circus. This is when Sanié began to feel creeped out. Knowing how quickly she needed to deescalate the situation, she asked, “Why are you here? How do you know where I work?” She moved slightly toward the building to make sure she and the man could be seen by the security cameras affixed to the columns.

            “Girl, you told me last week,” he grinned,  speaking in an accent that didn’t match his body but rather, likely, his friends’ growing up, “when we met.”

Sanié was not pleased to be called girl by this stranger, but she kept her gaze empty, confused.

            The man hesitated. “Or I think it was you. You got a twin? Pink hair? Sweet voice? Big ass?” He talked with stiff straight hands that emphasized the parentheses of this hypothetical ass.

            Sanié took two steps backward. “No twin.”

            Moments like this were not meant to happen in Sanié’s world. The point of phone sex was distant intimacy. For both parties. A caller shared their kinks, their innermost fantasies. An operator made that fantasy come true. Caller came. Caller hung up. Operator got paid their hourly rate for the minutes they were on the phone. Maybe a caller became a regular client, but they never met their operators. If they met, see, then Sanié couldn’t pretend that the man or woman on the other line had a fat cock or that she was an eighteen-year-old blonde. Today’s conjured fantasy in which “Horny Astronaut” wrapped two navel oranges in a T-shirt in an effort to mimic playing with DD’s in a zero-gravity chamber would’ve been impossible.

            The dude looked embarrassed. “This just doesn’t make sense, you know?”

            Sanié tried to let him down easy. Some version of her had made an impact, even if it was in this man’s head, even if she had spent years working so that she would be distinguishable in most settings. “Okay, sweetie, listen,” she began, taking on her operator’s voice, “I appreciate you coming all this way to, uh, follow up with me on whatever date you think we had.” He interrupted, but she wouldn’t let him speak. Raised a finger. Changed tactics. “Most women will find it creepy if a man goes to a her place of work when she isn’t calling him back or anything, but I don’t think you’re a creep,” quieting her voice, she said “I’m gonna go now. Be well, and stay away from the hard stuff.”

            But the small speech, which should have worked to throw him off guard, made him  insistent. He faced her even as she turned away.

            “You told me to come here. You told me to do some role play, come to your office, and find you. And now,” he hesitated, stepping back as he rethought his earlier assessment, “you’re acting like,” and his voice trailed off.

            Sanié finished his sentence, “Like I don’t know you.”

            Something in his eyes was earnest, she would’ve seen if she’d looked closely. Equally as puzzled as she was. Knowing where she worked? Knowing her face? Instead, she found the clarity that suited her.

            “Oh shit.” She laughed. “Andrea put you up to this, didn’t she?” Sanie laughed a coughing sort of laugh, “Fuck her, wow. Okay, honestly for a second you had me going. Whatta bitch.” The puzzle solved, she began walking away. “Tell her she wins.”
The man didn’t laugh. “Who’s Andrea?”

            Just then Sanié’s bus turned the corner. She waved at the man. “Don’t be too good at your job.” Smiling big, she got to the stop. The pigeons perched on building balconies seemed to laugh with her as she boarded. The man did not follow, just stared after her.

—

Sanié forgot about the incident on the bus. She didn’t bother texting Andrea about the prank because she knew Andrea had lost her phone three nights ago after some show at Lincoln Hall. She didn’t think twice about why anyone would prank her or why the man wouldn’t have some finish planned for the kind of nonexistent joke. She arrived home, where her mother, eternally stationed at the linoleum kitchen counter in her red flip flops and blue flannel robe, asked why she hadn’t put away her dishes after breakfast.

            “It was a long day, Mama,” she said ignoring the question and not looking toward her mother’s shaking head in the kitchen, not even a glance to the white roots growing into her coarse black hair. Sanié went to her room, like a teenager. Which is what her baba, eternally stationed in the living room in slippers and a green version of her mother’s robe, yelled after her.

            Her mother cooked dinner, but Sanié let her parents eat alone and told them she would clean up. When she heard them finishing, she went out to make sure each of them had their meds for the evening and cleaned up after their meal. She took a small bowl of pulao back to her room and ate in bed. She took two, mundane calls. She contemplated texting some friends to see if there was anything happening that night, but decided against it.

            Her chest felt tense, as it did sometimes, like she’d been holding something ahead of her too long waiting for someone to open a door. She ate her pulao and watched bad standup for an hour and a half—nothing put her to bed quite like it. Afterward, she lay in the dark holding a violet dildo against her clit. She tried to empty her mind. Pushed the black of the room past waves of thought and breath until she came. Her sleep was dreamless, her ability to put a day into her subconscious untouched by the events of her afternoon.

—

The next day, Sanié decided to stay home from the office. It was an unreasonably cold April Wednesday, and the forecast called for hail. Sanié had never left the Midwest, though she once took a cruise to the Caribbean with her cousins. That was some years ago. They’d spent most of the vacation drinking artificially flavored daiquiris and telling stories about the ass-backward men her cousins dated, aspiring doctors and CEO’s and, sometimes, lawyers with mommy complexes and drinking problems and fraternity brothers or whatever the fuck. She rarely dated brown men anymore. She rarely dated any men anymore. There wasn’t much of a point. Why go out of one’s way for a relationship doomed to fail. Doomed to end with her, still in her parents’ home, still obligated.

            Her parents, of course, asked her about these things, encouraged her to meet so-and-so’s son who was studying at Northwestern. She took the conversations as cues for her to leave the house, her childhood bedroom. Cues she didn’t take. She’d move but she couldn’t leave her life here—not when her parents needed her to take care of the house, make sure the bills were paid on time, manage their insurance, make sure they didn’t get scammed. She had a responsibility, she’d decided sometime after she’d had to move home from college.

            She loved her family, though perhaps not in the conventional way. She didn’t know if people actually could.

            She took three calls that afternoon from the desk in her bedroom—slow. Two dudes who wanted a conventionally submissive bimbo, the second of whom she persuaded to have her play a sex robot, just to shake things up and keep him on the line longer. Then one man who called weekly just to chat about his life, his job, the trip him and his family had just taken to Montauk. He was kind, if not boring. Sanié listened and asked him questions and laughed at his bad jokes. She thought of telling him he could pay a therapist, but that may not be what therapists were for and she might have been more affordable than one.

            It was funny when she thought about it, that she found this job in one of Baba’s newspapers. She’d been going through listings a year and a half ago after a particularly annoying day at the health food store. A kid had flushed half a sandwich down the toilet and clogged it, and Sanié was the one to plunge it up—it wasn’t appetizing to see whole tomatoes and slices of turkey come up a pipe like that. The ad stated plainly: “WANTED: VOICE ACTRESSES AND STORYTELLERS FOR TELEPHONE SALES.” Well, Sanié had always been told she had a nice voice and had a particular love for well-placed dupes, so she called. Her parents were proud when she told them she found a new job. They took her to her favorite Thai restaurant off Argyle just to celebrate. Mama told them the latest gossip circulating the catty group of aunties she visited with, and Baba, eyeing the bowl from across the table, asked Sanié if he could taste her seafood soup. She remembered lifting her spoon to his eager mouth with a smile.

            Between calls, she watched reality TV and shared an asynchronous lunch of aloo gosht with her parents. When she decided to be done for the day, she thought about going out and decided against it. Too much effort for an escape that never felt free.

            On Thursday, Sanié went into the office around 2:30. She ran into Andrea, who sat two cubicles down from her, in the elevator and was reminded of the man with the pizza. When she asked about it, Andrea played it off, chuckling slightly. Had Sanié wanted to see it, she’d have noticed that the lack of knowledge felt genuine. Andrea turned to her, the blue braided into her hair catching in the light. She asked if Sanié had met the person who’d started the day before.

            Sanié had not. There was a new person in the office every couple months or so. Low retention or whatever. And it made sense. The way that the operation worked. Management, tucked away in corner offices that never seemed occupied, took a significant cut of what people paid. Even if your hourly rate was as high as Sanié’s, it wasn’t enough to survive on. She still took a Sunday shift at the health food store when calls were light during the week.

            Sanié and Andrea were greeted by Sandra at the front, and then each woman headed to her desk. But when Sanié turned the corner toward her cubicle, someone was in her chair. She tapped her shoulder. Said, “Hey sorry, this is my seat.”

            The woman turned around in her chair slowly, with a soft, “Oh,” and Sanié blinked to be sure of her eyes. “My bad. I’m new and didn’t realize this desk was taken.”

            She waved her hand, smiling a remorseful smile, pointing to the emptiness of the desk. Sanié saw that it did not look like she’d ever occupied it. The woman continued. “Do you mind if I sit here for the day? I’ll clear it out in a couple of hours. Promise.”

            She smiled at Sanié with all her teeth, revealing dimples Sanié remembered she once had. Her hands were pressed into one another like a prayer. Her voice sounded like pie or a velour sweatsuit.

            Sanié acquiesced, walked away. She found a desk in the fourth row from the wall that was unoccupied. She sat down, placed her bag on the desk in front of her. She still wore her coat. At her desk, at her real desk—it was her. Or, the person that looked like her was at her desk. Or, at her desk there was a mirror and none of her movements were matching up and it was good, really good, that she had walked away from her.

            Her, but pink haired. Her, but soft-spoken. Her, but smiling, non-sarcastic, accommodating, fat-assed (unconfirmed, but yes). Her, but not her. Sanié sat for a moment. She thought she ought to say something but couldn’t think of anything to say. She went to the front desk, greeted Sandra and her blond pouf halfheartedly.

            “Sandra,” she said, “the new girl?”

            Sandra smiled. “So sweet, right!” It was not a question. Sanié agreed, met Sandra’s friendly, searching eyes.

            “She,” Sanié began.

            “Sanié,” Sandra interjected.

            “Yes?”

            “No, that’s her name. Sanié.”
Sanié paused a moment. “Strange,” she managed.

            Sandra gave Sanié a confused stare, “Is it?”

            “Maybe?”

            Sandra pointed out that there were multiple Rachel’s in the office, and this was true, but the equivalency felt like a stretch.

            “Maybe not,” Sanié said anyway. “Will she get my calls if she’s at my desk?” she asked, finding a reason to be where she was.

            Sandra frowned, unimpressed by any sense of competition in the room—this was a friendly workplace. She told Sanié the calls don’t belong to anyone, that they were a community.

            Sanié saw the upset in front of her, tried to negotiate. “Yeah of course. I was just thinking I have regular clients who contact me. How will they—”

            Sandra interrupted. “Don’t get short with me, please. I’m just working the desk. Your regulars, if they ask for you, will be transferred to you. Until then, we distribute calls evenly between the desks. Now if you don’t mind.” Sandra’s hands gestured to the desk around her, and Sanié was reminded of the other woman’s similar gesture.

            “Alright,” Sanié said, beginning to step away, not wanting to ask how Sandra would know the difference between the two Sanié’s. She thanked Sandra and walked to her new desk. On her way, she passed the other Sanié sitting at her desk, laughing with Andrea two desks down. When they met eyes, the other Sanié smiled and gave her a wave over.

            Sanié obliged. Her discomfort was palpable, but the other Sanié seemed not to notice.

            “Hi hi! Andrea was just telling me that everyone is getting drinks tonight, are you coming?” This other Sanié had an eagerness to her. She smiled bright and kept her posture upright.

            Andrea gave the other Sanié a warning look, while Sanié looked at Andrea in surprise. “Oh, really? I didn’t realize. I must not have gotten the text.”
Andrea shrugged, admitted that she hadn’t texted because Sanié rarely joined anymore. Sanié knew that it was true. The other Sanié remained adamant.

            “Woah, why not?” she exclaimed. “You should totally come. I’m new to the city and would love to hang out with you.” She had the countenance of a cheerleader. Sanié hated to see it on her own face.

            “New to the city, huh?”

A phone started ringing one desk over, and the other Sanié gasped. “That’s me! Sorry, guys!”

            “Sorry about that,” Andrea said as the other Sanié left, “My phone’s been weird, you know.” Then, “Don’t you have calls or something?”

            Sanié understood she was dismissed. She overheard the other Sanié’s call, her giggling voice. Artless, really. No creativity to the storyline, just “What else do you want me to do, Daddy?” They’d see how the call averages came out.

            Back at her desk, the phone was silent. Sanié sat only a moment before going back to the elevator.

            “I’ll be right back, Sandra.”

            She entered the elevator, went to the lobby, and at the front desk, said to David, “I had someone try to deliver a pizza to me yesterday, but gave the wrong directions. Do you have the number they signed in with so I can give them a call?”

            “Sure, mija,” David said, handing her a binder beneath the desk. The old man liked Sanié, who brought him coffee every Monday from the spot by the train.

            Retrieving the number, Sanié thanked David and went outside to make a call.

            “Hey, creep,” said Sanié when the phone picked up. Of course, he recognized her voice. Began a hopeful greeting before Sanié interrupted. “Listen, where did you say you met me? The other night?”

            The voice on the other line attempted alertness though it seemed to barely flash through the haze of what Sanié imagined was a midday high. “Yeah totally,” he said, “if you want to meet again just say the word, we don’t even have to go back there.”

            Sanié rolled her eyes, impatient. “No, it was not me,” she reminded him. “Where did you meet the other person?”
“Isn’t it your job to be nice to strangers on the phone, jeez.” The man who gets no ass becomes instantly macho when their pinky so much as grazes one. “We met when I was scalping tickets outside the circus. Remember? Trampolines.”

            Sanié hung up. Realizing this man had no information for her. She returned upstairs, and when the doors opened on the 14th floor, the other Sanié was waiting.

            “Oh hey, look at that! Long time no see.” The pink-haired, tooth-smiling woman had Sanié’s face, stood at her height, and yet it was clear that the woman vibrated on a very different frequency. “Thanks for letting me use your desk today. I felt super welcomed. The job was kind of easy! Men really just want one thing, huh?” The grin never left her face.

            “Are you leaving? Didn’t the day just start?”

            The other Sanié nodded enthusiastically. “I just have so many things to do today, getting settled and all. You know how it is.”

            Sanié knew she had a distinct desire to cut through whatever tub of frosting had landed on her life in the form of this woman. She grabbed her unsuspecting doppelganger by the elbow and steered her to an empty corner.

            “Whatever joke you’re playing has gone too far, okay. Tell me what the hell you’re doing here.” Sanié had spent years cultivating a persona to intimidate. As a teenager, she practiced snarling in the mirror. She pierced her own ears to prove that she didn’t mind pain. She was out of practice now–she called herself old and tired–but the instinct was there.

            The other Sanié’s smile left as the questions tripped forward. “I don’t know what you mean, I—”

            “Why are you here?” Sanié interrupted, and the other woman looked genuinely surprised at the tone, as though she didn’t see the mirror she was looking into.

            “Honestly, I just needed a job. I figured since you were so successful here, you know, maybe I could just work until I landed on my feet.” The smile slowly returned, lifting the corners of the woman’s concerned eyes toward her dark eyebrows.
Sanié registered the words. Tried to follow up with a how did you know, but as Sanié began to ask, a phone started ringing. Looking back, a small red light at the desk she now occupied blinked blankly at her.

            “I think your phone is ringing,” said the other woman, suddenly looking brighter-eyed and somehow, distinct. “Good timing, too! I have a lunch date.” She waved a pert goodbye and walked to the elevator. Sanié, dazed, hurried to her desk.

“Hello,” she answered, her voice demurring into a purr. All of her instinctive selves making their appearances as they needed to.

            The voice on the other line was panting, and she realized she needed to cool him down for the call to last more than five minutes. She asked him logistical questions about what he wanted, who he wanted her to be. He wanted her to treat him like a baby, and so she asked about his diaper, offered to put a lolly in his butt, soothed him when he threw a tantrum. She told him to spend time with blocks and describe what he was building. It bought time. As an only child, Sanié never had younger siblings to care for, but she babysat for her parents’ friends in high school. At least she knew how to play at childcare.

            When he started on a long tantrum, which seemed to revolve mainly on the injustice of the world treating him as an adult, Sanié remembered the conversation she’d been called from. The man spoke and she googled doppelgängers. She found a list of TV tropes: evil twins, selves from parallel universes, androids, illegally developed clones, impersonators. These were her options for what was happening. The man would notice if Sanié went too deep into these, so she returned to the call, trying not to think about the possibility that pink-haired Sanié could be trying to kill her and take over her life.

            The man hung up abruptly after coming in his diaper twenty minutes later. Solid time, she noted.

            Sanié sat at her desk, the low hum of dirty talk around her, wondering at the appearance of this doppelgänger who less than an hour ago sat in this seat. She left the thoughts unresolved. She entered the self she needed to get her work done.

In the afternoon, her mother texted her asking her to pick up parsley and mozzarella for a baked ziti her baba particularly loved. Ten minutes passed and still no calls. It wasn’t surprising. It was only 4:30, and a weekday. The good thing about this office was that she could act as though she had a day job. Her parents thought she was in sales and were happier for it. She packed up her things and headed home, wordlessly waving goodbye to Sandra and David on her way out. She averted her eyes from everything pink, keeping her eyes to the ground on the commute.

            When she walked in she smelled the familiarity of pre-shredded cheese bubbling over tomato sauce in the oven, the sound of Baba’s TV humming. She often resented coming home to this apartment. Hated the furniture they’d had since she was a child. The old white wallpaper laying a border of ivy near the ceiling. But in that moment, it was comforting to be at home. She went in and sat down next to him, the pleather squelching beneath her.

            “Where’s Mama?” It was a demand more than a question.
He smiled. “Salaam, bete.”

            “Walaikum as-Salaam. Where’s Mama?” she repeated.

            “I think next door. Miss Pettis offered her a loaf of that banana bread.”
That banana bread was infamous. The crust. The center. It would never last more than an hour in the house. Sanié smiled for the first time that day.

            “You have a good day, janum?”
“No, Baba.”

            He hummed. His eyes stayed on the TV. Sanié let hers glaze over as a bald, white man onscreen showed them how to spatchcock a chicken.

            Mama came in a few minutes later, walking straight up to the armchair, and grabbed the remote out of her husband’s hands, turning off the TV.

            Sanié laid the table, as Mama tossed a salad. When Miss Pettis knocked at the door, Baba, with his walker, opened it for her with a smile. Miss Deniece Pettis, now an old lady, but once a spry babysitter, a lender of books, a keeper of calm in more tumultuous years of this household simply by the nature of her internal calm, diffused the tension Sanié had been feeling at her neck since seeing whoever that pink-haired person was at her desk.

            “Hey sweetie,” said Miss Pettis, gliding up to give the twenty-two year old a swift kiss on the cheek. “You ain’t never stop by these days, where’ve you been?” Miss Pettis’s family came from Mobile to Chicago when she was thirteen.
Sanié evaded the question, returning to the kitchen to grab four glasses. “You know. Here and there, working. How’ve you been?”
Pleasantries were exchanged, the family sat together with their guest, and ziti was served. Miss Pettis led the conversation, talking about her grandkids and the block party happening next month. Sanié waited for the inevitable turn towards her.

            “How’s work, Sanié?”

            “Oh, you know. It is what it is.” Sanié took a large spoonful of pasta and cheese to her mouth, hoping it could end there.

            “I don’t even remember what you do,” Miss Pettis said, searching. <p

            “You said sales?”

Sanié hummed her affirmation.

            “Ignore her, Deniece. She doesn’t like to share details,” Mama said.

            “That’s not right. Who can you talk to if not your family?” said the other woman.

            Anyone else, Sanié thought. And then realized she hadn’t been talking to anyone at all. “Well, a really weird thing happened today,” she said, surprising herself.

            “Did it now,” said Miss Pettis.

            “A girl started working with us. She looks just like me. She sat at my desk.” Sanié looked around, expectations low for any meaningful response.

            “Interesting timing,” said Miss Pettis, looking toward Mama with a glint in her eye. “Khuya, doesn’t that sound just like those qareen you were telling me about just now?”

            Mama chuckled into her napkin, “Could be. You’re more superstitious than me now, aren’t you?” Mama was smiling at her friend.

            Sanié looked confused. “Qareen?”
“Djinn, sweetie. I shouldn’t know your culture better than you.” She laughed. “Your Mom was just telling me today about that story with your grandmother.”
“Mama, what?”

            Her mama waved off the concern with two swishes of her hand. “You never listen Sanié or you’d know. I’m sure I’ve told you.”

            “I’m sure you’ve not,” Sanié interjected.

            “Tell her, Khuya,” Miss Pettis said as Baba laughed into his napkin.

            “Djinn, like genies?” Sanié asked.

            Baba laughed harder.
“Don’t laugh, Baba!” insisted Sanié. “It’s your guys’ fault I don’t know anything about our culture, damn.”

            “Uff Allah, Sanié, so dramatic,” Mama said. She told the room to quiet and it did. She sipped her water. “Djinn are beings made from fire that has no smoke,” she began. “They can be good or bad. You would’ve known if you hadn’t skipped your Quran lessons.”
“Okay, and what’s a qareen?”
“Everyone has a qareen. It is the shadow of yourself. A djinn spirit attached to your soul.”

            “Okay, and they’re also human?”

            “Nahin, of course not,” said Baba.

            “Well now, Ahmed. Your wife was just telling me something different. What about your mother-in-law?”
“Amma?” asked Sanié.

            Mama clarified. “Yes, well Amma says that her grandmother was visited by her djinn. It looked just like her. A qareen, there to take over her life, is what she said.”

            “Well what happened? What’d she do?”

            Her mother looked at her a moment, then grabbed the knife on the placemat. She pointed it straight toward Sanié. “Stabbed it in the heart.”

            Baba made a gesture with his hands as if a ghost entered the room, before laughing. Ever the realist. “If you believe any of these things, of course.”
“You don’t,” his daughter asked.

            “Eh, I’m sure she met some long-lost twin or some whatnot and this was a good story to tell the children” he replied.

            “I believe it,” said Miss Pettis. “We don’t know about the spirits that follow us. A soul is a powerful thing. Who’s to say one of the spirits we carry with us couldn’t become real? That we don’t have to kill off some of our demons every once in awhile?”
Sanié echoed. The conversation drifted, and Sanié silently began collecting dishes. They ate slices of banana bread for dessert, and Sanié listened as her parents and their friend talked about the growing sense of doom in today’s politics, ultimately saying it’s no worse than it ever was before moving on to the need for renovations in the building.

            In bed that night, Sanié tried to watch TV but was too distracted. She googled qareen, found an obscure forum in Urdu where people were reportedly sharing stories of their hauntings.

            “Ridiculous,” she told herself. But as she fell asleep, the vision of the other Sanié bloomed pink at the forefront of her mind.

—

Sanié had not remembered her dreams in years, though sometimes she wished she would wake up screaming if only to be heard. Instead, she woke up soundlessly, first with the finches nested outside her window, then second a few hours later as the sound of the morning news filtered through the space beneath her door. Her eyes still felt heavy, but she needed to be. She debated whether it was a need.

            Returning to her bed, her feet now cold, she had made up her mind not to go into work today, instead determining by some strange reasoning that she’d find a landmark on the train. Not an escape, but an adventure. And why not?

            Running her hands along the map, she found her way to green, then to the conservatory at Garfield Park. When she told her mother where she was going, she was given a confused stare. “Really? For what?” to which Sanié snapped, “Am I not allowed to go anywhere besides here and work?”

            No one saw the room blacken with her frustration, but they felt it. Her mother said nothing, the wrinkles at her throat reaching toward her chin. She sighed deeply, letting go of her hold on her daughter’s gaze. “Do what you want, Sanié. I’m not trying to fight you today.” She turned away, putting a piece of toast in the toaster.

            Sanié she walked past her mother, not seeing her, the bag on her shoulder bumping loudly against a dining table chair too close to the door.

            The L would take an hour to get there, she discovered. The last time she’d gone there was in high school, and she thought that they must have driven. She put on her headphones, stark white against her red hair. She put her library on shuffle, listening to mostly house shit, remnants from the times she spent pregaming for nights out. Taking out a small bottle of nail polish from her bag, she coated her nails in a chameleon sort of green. When the train arrived at the Garfield Park stop, she jumped out, leaving her headphones on as she entered the conservatory.

            She liked the way the air felt—warm and humid, sinking into her skin. She took off her coat, draping it over her forearm as she walked past the tall banana trees toward the fern room. Inside, she heard running water, everything was green, the air heavy enough to taste. She stopped for a moment. She wondered if her parents had ever come here together. If they ever went as a family. Something there felt familiar, but memories had a way of collapsing. Maybe they’d been here, or maybe she was just recalling a one-time trip to Florida. Regardless, she felt herself unsure of how to move. Whether to go fast as though she were just on a walk or slow like there was something to see. The trees called her to pause before each fern, but the fear of seeming odd tugged her forward like a child on a parent’s shirttail. Around her, people in groups chatted as they walked, stopping by the edge of the pond in the center of the room. She would stay but she didn’t know how to stand still. She left the room and found a bench.

            Her phone was in her hands, which were in her lap, folded. Her shoulders were hunched, and then she straightened them. She thought about posting a photo of the flowers in front of her then changed her mind. She got up, began walking again, found herself in a room full of tropical fruit trees. The placard in front of her told her this was a sour cherry tree. Accordingly there were bright red patches of small red berries in front of her. No one else was in the room. She plucked one off the tree, putting it in her mouth. She gagged, the taste chemical on her tongue.

            “I think all of these trees are really heavily coated in pesticides,” a voice said behind her. She turned and nearly jumped when she saw the head of pink hair. She spat the mashed red fruit out onto the concrete path.

            “What the fuck!” she exclaimed, the taste of the chemicals migrating to the back of her throat. “Are you following me?”
“Not intentionally, no. But it’s nice to see you here. I wouldn’t have thought you’d like a place like this.”

            “A place like this,” Sanié repeated.

            “You know, somewhere peaceful and quiet. There are so many beautiful things here.” The look on her counterparts face was kind—genuinely so, as though she were truly curious about the happenstance of running into her new coworker. Sanié paused. Her coat was growing hot on her arm, so she shifted it to the other one.

            “Your name is Sanié,” she said after the moment.

            “So is yours,” laughed the woman with the pink hair. Sanié watched as her eyes, more awake on the other woman’s face, drifted overhead to the canopy shading them. “Do you want to walk around?”

            She didn’t know why she said yes, but she nodded. They found their way to a room full of cacti. The air was warm, dry. The cacti sat patient as cats in the sun.

            “Wow, look at how gorgeous,” said the other Sanié, pointing to a small succulent in bloom. “Look at how it matches my hair!”

            Sanié did not laugh, but she did see the comparison. The other woman’s smile reached her eyes, and Sanié tried to see if she could do the same, seeking some kind of joy somewhere to channel. She couldn’t. She felt restless, paused there only a few feet into the long room.

            “How long have you been in Chicago?” she asked.

            The woman’s response was nonchalant, pleasantly distracted. “Oh, as long as I can remember.”

            “Well, were you born here?” Sanié was determined to know the specifics.

            She received a smile in return. “Sure.”

            They walked in silence, every so often pausing as pink hair swooshed down toward broad leaves to excitedly examine the perfect holes cut into giant monstera or particularly lovely flowers blooming from the fruit trees.

            “Do you ever wish you were a flower?” asked the other Sanié.

            “The fuck kind of question is that?” Sanié asked, her eyes tense on the soil beds beside the path.

            The other woman smiled kindly. “Just trying to get to know you. Some people wish they could live different lives, you know.”

            Sanié laughed, really a scoff. “Not me.”
“No?”

            She hesitated, her eyes looking toward a couple holding hands on a bench taking a selfie together. “I mean, sometimes, I guess.”

            “Not a flower though?”

            Sanié felt discomfort scratch between her shoulders. “Is that what you’d want to be?”

            “Maybe. It seems peaceful. Bloom for a short while, give joy to the passersby. By November, you lay back down in the soil and get eaten by worms.”

            A laugh again, now genuine but surprised at that fact. “That’s an ideal?”
“No,” the other woman replied, her voice sing song. “The ideal is to be the best version of myself, I guess. It’s nice to walk around in the snow and have good sex and eat good food, etcetera.”

            The two of them walked past the couple on the bench. “Maybe for some people.”

            “Not for you?” The other Sanié turned to face her, eyes questioning. She was wearing a long sleeve white shirt tucked into a gray skirt that floated beneath her knees. She looked beautiful. Sanié wore all black. She saw how messily her nails had been painted. She spoke quietly.

            “It’s not like my life has been perfect.”

            “So who’s would you have? What would be better?”

            “I mean, it would be cool to be rich. Not famous or anything, but like enough money to go on vacations and get manicures and shit.”

            “That’s it?” the other woman asked.

            Sanié was surprised at the response. “What else?”

            “Love? Purpose? Fulfillment?”

            “I’m happy without them,” Sanié said looking at the ground and smirking.

            “You don’t sound happy,” the other woman replied, something approximating kindness in her eyes.

            Sanié thought at this. Was she? Happy? Sometimes, not always, but who was this woman to tell her anything about that. “You sound like a bitch.” She rose. She started walking away.

            “Aw, wait,” said the other woman, jogging to catch up. “Wait, stop.” She put her hand on Sanié’s shoulder and from nowhere, Sanié felt her face get hot, her throat seize up. “I’m sorry, I was too blunt.”

            “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Sanié would not make eye contact.

            “I think I’ll leave for the office soon. Do you?”

            Sanié didn’t answer.

            “You know, Sanié, I wonder why you stay here at all,” said the pink-haired woman, solemn for the first time in their conversation.

            “I like the way the air feels,” she murmured.

            The other woman continued as though she hadn’t heard her. “No one asks you to, everyone would be fine without you. Maybe you could be happy.”

            When Sanié raised her gaze, the other Sanié’s pink lips were still smiling. “I should go now,” she said. “One of us has to work, right?” She stood to walk away.

            Suddenly aware of the heaviness of the air, Sanié found words, “Hey, have you been sleeping around? People think I’m you, and it’s not cool.” She tried to be angry.

            The other Sanié’s mouth stretched cartoonishly, its edges pulling towards her jaw. “Oh no! What a mess,” she called back, turning on her heels and continuing to walk away. “I’ll try to let them know we are not the same.”

            Sanié stood near the entrance for a moment, watching as the other woman turned toward the train station. She put her coat back on slowly, barely noticing the drop in temperature as she left the greenhouse for the lobby, the dryness of the air. She waited for her bus, then boarded it, looking out the window the entire ride.

            It was rare to be asked why one stays in the life they are handed, perhaps even more rare to recognize that one even has a choice. Imagine Sanié—twenty-three, having barely left the house, her only conception of herself what others have told her or seen in her. And of course, she could claim that she knew herself. She could point to the music she liked to listen to, the kind of lover that attracted her, the taste she had in clothes. What would be more difficult would be trying to answer what the lyrics of her favorite grunge songs said about the thoughts she was drawn to, or what exactly attracted her to the lank men, half-okay men, half-bad men, half-men who disappear after a few nights of rough, impersonal sex, harder to say what was covered when she bleached the roots of her hair. One might say that Sanié had only ever sought to know herself by constructing how others could see her, by shading over the parts of herself she did not want to know.

            When she arrived home, her key slid noiselessly into the door, which cracked open equally silently. This had always been of benefit to Sanié, who needed the aid sneaking out for many years of her life. As the door opened, she heard her name, her parents’ voices coming from the living room.

            “How would I know where she’s gone, Yasser? She talks to me as infrequently as she does you.”
Sanié paused, recognizing that she hadn’t been heard.

            “You’re her mother, Khuya. How can you not find a way to relate?”

            Sanié heard her mother’s voice rise, then soften. “I’ve tried! Allah knows I’ve tried.”

            They were silent for a moment. Sanié still. “I know, janum. I’m sorry. We’ve both tried as we could. How she can disappear and ignore and yell like we never gave her anything, all of it is beyond me.” Sanié felt black behind her eyes, heard the hum of the TV murmuring beneath the voices.

            Her mother said it in a whisper, in Urdu, a mother-tongue Sanié always recognized and turned away from until one day her tongue couldn’t form it. Do you think we’ve failed? The question felt like an admission that felt like it should never have been said.

            A choking, the sense that the air was thickening. No tears, never tears. Silently, Sanié moved away from the door, pulling it closed with the smallest of clicks. She walked down the stairs of the old building toward the front entrance, her head moving in on itself.

            Her parents never knew how to raise her—an American-born teenager with black nails and a cursing mouth, a rupture in what they expected of a girl. It was their misfortune to have only created one opportunity for the child they dreamed. When she failed out of school, they didn’t understand what happened. They opened the letter that came to the house saying she was on academic probation, and Baba yelled at her for not valuing the opportunities she’d been given. Mama fumed in the corner, wondering how her little gap-toothed girl who’d wanted nothing more than to be a veterinarian became a young woman with a series of shit boyfriends she’d hide from her parents and no sense of who she wanted to be.

            She didn’t know where she was going but found her way to the office.

            “I don’t have my badge, David.”

            “No worries, mija. Go on up,” he nodded, then, calling after her. “You okay?”

            “Yeah.”

            She rode the elevator up, picking at the clumping nail polish at her cuticles. When she arrived she nodded to Sandra, went to her desk. It was empty. So empty she understood how another person could occupy it with no one saying a thing. No Sanié anywhere, not a pink strand in sight. She sat. Ten minutes passed and no one spoke to her. She received a call. Simple. A man who wanted to be called Daddy, who wanted to be told how she wanted to be fucked. But as she prepared to take on the character, her voice was empty, as though the person she’d been on every call before this had found a door out of her mind and exited, soundless. The call ended after six minutes. Six. She imagined a visible ticking down of her call average.

            Sanié got up from her desk and went to the bathroom. She sat in the stall, pants still on, moving as though this were the moment she’d break. She heard the sink begin to run, sat still for a moment, then flushed the toilet. Walking out, she saw the familiar cascade of pink down the woman’s back. She approached the sink next to her, looking into her face doubled in the mirror. The other Sanié smiled.

            “Hey there.”

            “I know you’re a djinn,” said Sanié.

            “Oh?” the other woman turned off the tap and walked toward the roll of paper towels near the door. She began wiping her hands.

            “Yes. I am not afraid to do what needs to be done.”

            “Hm.” The other Sanié laughed. “That must be new for you.” All hints of her innocence dissipated like sugar into tea. She finished wiping her hands. “I suppose the question remains of what needs to be done, then.” She smiled and left the bathroom.

            Sanié looked at her face in the mirror. She saw the beginning of a long crease making its way across her forehead, saw her mother’s long straight nose bisecting her face, the black-lined eyes so brown they could be black. She left the bathroom too, returning to her desk. When she looked around, the other woman seemed to have left. Sanié knew it was time to return home. To prepare. Her life could not be dismantled this easily.

            The apartment felt unfamiliar when she walked in. Her parents sat silently in front of the TV, as though they had been there since the conversation she’d overheard. She took off her boots by the entrance and walked into the room. “As-salaam-u-alaikum.”

            They both looked up, wished peace upon her as well. They looked old to her in that moment, though they were both just over fifty. Their eyes were tired, bagged down toward their chins. Even their robes were somehow more faded than before. Mama’s back started to show signs of a permanent bend, a leaning over toward kitchen countertops and her husband’s chairs and the ground in prayers. Sanié never saw her pray.

            “I’ll be in my room. Let me know when dinner is on the table,” she said in a voice not quite her own. She went to her room. She set down the bag she’d packed in the morning, sat fully clothed on her bed. Sanié imagined if not-her walked in. She imagined her double bringing joy to the darkly lit, near windowless space. Imagined her learning Mama’s recipes for ras gullahs and pyaaz gosht, watching the History channel with Baba, sharing his love for the documentaries on the Elizabethan era. If the other Sanié was a shadow of herself, could she not too do those things? It felt too late. Too much had happened. That part of herself existed outside of her, beyond her choices by now, surely.

            Sanié remembered the question posed to her at the conservatory. “Why do you stay here at all?” She thought she’d known. Remembered feeling that she was needed. But in what universe was someone who made their parent’s feel they had failed needed in their home. She thought she’d done it for them—her one redeeming feature. And yet, she’d always known they’d rather her build a life apart from theirs, better than theirs. Could she still do that, she wondered?

            That night, they ate a silent dinner together. Sanié’s mother began to ask her why she painted her nails such an awful color, but Sanié looked at her with a silencing glare. She immediately felt guilty. After ten minutes, Sanié offered to do the dishes.

            “Nahin, bete. I’ll do them. I have a particular way,” Mama replied, her voice tired.

            “You could show me,” she offered, trying. “It’s not fair to do it alone.”

            “I’m happy to, janum.”

            It was the end of the conversation. Her mother gathered the plates and rose. Sanié sat with Baba at the table silent for a moment before rising herself.

            “I’m going out,” she said, as though to herself.

            “Where?” asked Baba from the table.

            Sanié ignored the question. Went to her room and packed her bags. On her way out, she went through the kitchen. Put her hand on Mama’s back. Mama looked around a moment but did not say anything, turning back to the dishes she was loading in the dishwasher. She grabbed a knife from the wooden holder, placing it in her bag. She would change. Of course she could change.

            Leaving the building, she did not know where she was going. Her body told her it did not matter. The sun had set, the air was cool. She zipped up her coat. Walked to the train and took it south, finding herself at a dive bar in Lincoln Park near the lake. She went in, sat down at the counter, and waited.

            It took fifteen minutes for her double to come and sit next to her. The other woman squeezed her forearm as she sat, giving her a smile, before raising the arm to wave over the bartender.

            “You didn’t get a drink yet?”
“Not yet.”

            When the bartender came over, the other Sanié asked for a menu. He obliged, smiling at her and walking away.

            “I know what you are,” Sanié said to her double when he was at a distance.

            “You already said that, silly.”

            “You need to leave.”

            “Aw, Sanié—” she began to say.

            “I’m serious. I don’t want to have to kill you.” Sanié had decided she could. She imagined the weight of the knife in her bag.

            “Stab me in the heart?”

            “If that’s what it takes.”
“Ah, Sanié. I thought we were becoming friends.” Her eyes seemed genuinely sad. “I’m only here because you needed me, you called me.”

            A pause. “I never called you,” Sanié said. “You show up wherever I am, I never ask anything of you, but you’re out here sleeping with random fuckboys like my body is just yours, my memories just yours.” There had been no preparation for this apparition, no incline before the drop of the cliff.

            “Didn’t you, though? Didn’t you want another version of yourself? One to talk on the phone for you when you wanted to be somewhere else? One to talk to your parents when being in the apartment made you feel spaceless?” A cocktail menu arrived, and the double glanced at it. All the drinks were named after the zodiac.

            A memory. Sanié, drunk after work at a happy hour. Asking Andrea if she ever wished someone else could come and live the boring parts of life for her. “Like a stunt double?” her coworker asked.

            “Yes exactly.”

            “Sure, and you get to have sex and eat brunch and watch TV. Sounds like a dream.”

            A dream.

            “The Gemini please,” the other Sanié said to the bartender, flipping her hair. “I love rum,” she said to Sanié. “Anyways, you did didn’t you? Want another version of yourself?” It seemed as if the woman’s body had come into greater focus, her eyes brighter, her presence enlarged. “I only came to give you the option. Go sink into whatever you want to sink into.” She smiled, the smile flashing like a knife. A knife in her bag. Her mind too scattered to think to grab it.

            Sanié’s voice was weak. “I don’t want anything else.” The cocktail arrived, a pale orange garnished with a sprig of mint. Sanié took a sip.

            “Maybe that’s the issue, hm? You don’t seem to want anything. That would confuse anyone. You haven’t wanted anything since,” a pause, a raised eyebrow, “well, since that situation with Uncle Umar in high school. But there are so many things I want! Wouldn’t it just be better if I took over?”

            Sanié sat horrified for a moment, then said, “And I would, what? Just walk away?”

            “Maybe you’d actually start your life. Do what you said you’d do if you could escape.

            Sanié’s breath stilled, her hand rested on the bar counter. She let a finger find its way to a drag of condensation that marked where the double’s glass had sat for a moment. She felt its wet. She forgot the knife.

—

Two days passed. Sanié sat in her room pondering the pile of clothes still left by the wardrobe. She should pack them, she thought to herself. Though, the other Sanié might find use for them. She skipped work that day. She wondered if Sandra would notice. David? Did she want them to care? She thought she did. It was a fair point that there were things she knew she have could tried to want the way she wanted the people at the office to think about where she was, even though the reality of her line of work was to be invisible. Maybe she wanted, though, to find love somewhere, to live on her own—maybe she was meant to be an artist. She would go straight to the airport. She’d book a flight to LA. Landing on the sun, she would call a friend she hadn’t seen in four years to stay on their couch. She was having the thoughts. What would she even do in another life? Wouldn’t she be the same? Or would the new place change her. Would she stop working phones? But there was nothing wrong with working a phone. Telling stories that meant something to someone even if they weren’t shared with the world. At least she could tell when she was appreciated. But she could do that from anywhere. And when she was honest, she had not been in a place to devote herself to that work either, no matter how natural it had felt to begin it.

            Mama and Baba—they would be fine. The other Sanié was more loving, would be kinder to them. More patient with their expectations and wants. Sandra, David, Andrea—they’d be fine too. David liked anyone. Sandra seemed to prefer the other Sanié. Andrea—were they really even friends? The other Sanié wouldn’t stay on the phones long, regardless. Maybe she’d go into sales for real. Start a marketing gig. Whatever people who are attractive and smart enough do. The other Sanié would find love—she was be more open to love than Sanié—even unconventional love—as willing as she was to be intimate with the men Sanié spun lies for. The other Sanié would find truth in the life that Sanié built in deception. And Sanié would try to build something true elsewhere. She could, right? Because anyone could. And even if she had decided to stay, would anything change? She would be on the phones again tonight. She would be eating a silent breakfast with her parents again in the morning.

            She thought she could cry, but Sanié did not cry. She had no time to pity anyone, much less herself. Sanié heard a knock at the door. She knew it was Sanié. She picked up the canvas bag by the bed, the one she packed the night before. Phone, wallet, keys. She left the keys. She grabbed a passport. The knife was still in the bag. She hesitated, seeing it there. Another knock at the door. Baba groaned. “I’ll get it, Baba.” The knife was dull, never once sharpened in twenty-five years in this building. She was still holding it when she opens the door.

            “Hey there, stranger.”

            Sanié gave herself another day in her world. She spent most of it watching TV with Baba and ignoring the calls from the health food store wondering why she hadn’t shown up for her shift. Mama made dal chawal for dinner, and they talked about a cousin’s wedding set for December.

            She welcomed the other person into the house. “Take off your shoes. Baba, this is Sanié, she’ll be staying here for awhile,” she said to her father.

            “Wow, another Sanié. Hello, bete.”

            “Arrhe,” said Mama, coming in from the dining room where she’d been working on her computer. “Who’s your friend, Sanié. What a beautiful girl.” Both parents had smiles on their faces.

            “I’ll be leaving now,” Sanié said to empty ears as Sanié greets her parents. She gave them kisses on each cheek.

            She walked toward the door, shut it silently behind her.

            Standing on the landing, she heard laughter from inside. The knife was still in her bag. The door was still unlocked. She couldn’t hear the birds or the traffic but she could see them from the hallway window. She took a step on the carpeted floor and rubbed her boot into its weave. There was not much to turn back for, her mind told her. Go, said her legs. But she didn’t. She turned around and lifted a hand to the door.

            Sanié opened it, the question lingering on her smile. Grasping the knife, Sanié thrusted upwards, heartwards, wondering if it would reach the double’s or her own. When the moment passed, a plume of smoke hovered before Sanié. The single remnant of a choice dissipating into the air, inevitable.

“What about these?” Lucy said, holding up a pair of deep blue pants. We were surrounded by pants—there must’ve been hundreds of them, in all colors and sizes, all stacked in tidy piles on the tables around us, a true pants emporium. It had been over a year since the last time we were in a department store and I couldn’t stop myself from touching the fabric. I held the pants at my waist, and it appeared they might be the right size. My girlfriend had a knack for picking out clothes for me, so I took the pair to the dressing room.

 

Every part of the mall felt cooled and brightly lit, like a dream. The attendant checked how many items I had, gave me a plastic card with a black 1 on both sides, and showed me to my stall, near the back of the room by a triptych of mirrors.

 

I searched for a lock on the door, but evidently it was one that locked automatically. I was halfway through taking off my jeans when I heard a faint sound from the stall next to mine. It sounded like a woman’s voice, familiar but too distant for me to place. It was probably just interference coming from the speakers that piped in wordless pop hits. “Say you love me,” she said. There was a murmured response and then a rustling, like covers or bed sheets. This time it really sounded like it came from the stall next to mine. Maybe I’d somehow ended up in the women’s dressing room by accident. I tried to ignore it and finished taking off my pants.

 

“Say you love me,” she moaned, and this time I recognized the woman’s voice as belonging to my mother, which was, of course, impossible, and so I guided my foot down the right leg of the pants my girlfriend had picked out.

 

“I love you,” a soft voice said. “I love you for all time.” There was no mistaking it: the voice was my father’s, which was, of course, also impossible due to several obvious reasons but chiefly among them the fact that my parents divorced two years after I was born, although I’d never quite understood why. Never feeling close enough to either to ask why, I carried it with all the other unknowns of my life that I’d accepted, unknowns like what were my ancestors doing in 783 A.D.? Or how much do my memories weigh? Unfortunately, there was only one way to know what was happening over there. As quietly as I could, I stepped up onto the bench where I’d set my belt and keys and phone. On my tiptoes, I’d be tall enough to peer over, which I’d only need to do for a second. Then came the click of a lighter and a deep exhale. I took a deep breath and braced myself for whatever was on the other side. The most notable thing about the stall next to mine was how large it was, big enough to hold a bed, and indeed, there was a bed in there with two people rolling around in it. The man, who looked just like the man in the photos of my father holding me as a baby, was smoking a cigarette and looked directly at me with his green eyes. I ducked back onto my side.

 

Had I been spotted? Would they call security? What would Lucy think? Not good, I thought, not good and very dumb move on my part! I remained totally motionless, like some sad animal whose only remaining defense was to play dead. I listened. “I don’t feel so good,” the woman said. “Oh god not good I think I’m going to—” But then another person was there soothing her, telling her she’d be fine and that a doctor was on the way. “It’s been months of this,” she said. “I hate it.”

 

There was a knock on the door. I struggled to slide my other leg into the pants. My calf squeezed, thighs felt like sausages, butt cheeks pressed together. “Just a second!” I yelled. There’d been no new sounds from next door.

 

“You doing okay in there?” Lucy asked. “Taking forever. Let me see.”

 

I’d barely zippered up when I opened the door and stumbled out.

 

“Oh,” Lucy said, disappointed. “They’re…definitely too small.”

 

“What if they’re high-waisted,” I said and tried hiking them up, remembering an episode of The Twilight Zone where some fellas had their trousers up past their belly buttons.

 

“No,” Lucy said, with a concerned look. “Stop that. Do you want to try another pair?”

 

“Thanks, that’s alright,” I said. “I’m getting hungry.”

 

Lucy left, and I closed the door so I could squirt myself out of the pants like toothpaste, but as soon as the door closed I heard wailing. Back at my post on the bench, I knew I had to peer over one last time. Down below me, on a couch in a sparse apartment, sat a woman that looked just like my mother, trying to get a baby to latch on her breast. “Ow!” she said. “Fuck. Carl, he bit me. Carl? Where are you? Carl, I’m bleeding.” And while she fed the baby she started to cry, and then said, “No. Nope, no,” and brushed her cheeks with the back of her hand.

 

It could have been that I was standing on my toes for too long, or that the pants had cut off the blood to my feet, but I felt them sparkle and tingle. I got down and peeled off the pants as quickly as I could. On my way out of the dressing rooms I peeked under the stall next to mine. No one was there.

 

Back on the floor, Lucy had another pair of pants in her hand and sized them up on me.

 

“What about these?” she said.

 

They were very nice pants, there was no disputing that: a nice cut, not too baggy, nothing pre-distressed, demanding to be broken-in, glowing with potential. I told her they were great but not for me. Someone else would love them, I could already see it.

 

We’re smoking again when my mother calls. Clothed in the bare minimum on Dean’s balcony, we’ve got on just enough to look decent. Even at night, the stucco behind our backs is still hot from a full day of direct sun. The few stars that manage to penetrate the sky through the lights of the distant Vegas Strip shine faintly above us, but under the balcony lights Dean’s neighbors might see us, might be watching us right now through their blinds. And why wouldn’t they? We’re young and fit, with just enough muscle and just enough cushion in the right places that we’re sure anyone past their prime would stare at us, envious. But we’re not really thinking of his neighbors—our neighbors, he sometimes calls them, and when he does, I don’t correct him—when my mother calls again. We’re thinking about the lights bouncing off our freshly re-filled wine glasses, and how satisfying the post-orgasm breathlessness feels when exacerbated by the smoke we draw deep into our lungs.

 

On the phone, my mother sounds out of breath, too. “Can I come over?” She asks me this in Hungarian, our shared language that is as natural to me inside our house as seeing my father in his bathrobe on the couch, but in public, our mother tongue is like a neon orange raincoat: it keeps what my parents and I share with each other secret while also making the sounds that leave our mouths painfully visible.

 

“Come here? Why?” I respond in Hungarian.

 

“Your father just left to go drinking with his buddies, and I can’t stand to be left at home alone like this anymore,” she says, a plea, a demand, anything but a statement. “I have work in the morning. I’ll be gone by then.”

 

I sigh.

 

Dean’s words don’t falter when he tells me my mother can stay the night, but I can see the hesitation in his eyes. He’s only shook hands with my parents, never really spoken to them. We haven’t been together long, just a few months really, and it’s never felt like the right time to bring the four of us together, especially with my dad so often gone. Why should Dean have to host my mother just because I practically live here now? But he takes my chin in his hand and says, “It’s fine, I swear,” and pecks me on the lips. Then we scrub our stains off the couch before my mother sits on it and draw the curtains closed over the sliding glass door, so she won’t have to see the mound of cigarette butts on the plate out there.

 

My mother’s known I smoke for a few years, but she doesn’t like to see evidence of it. Rather, I don’t like for her to see the evidence, because it provokes her to search my face and tell me that my skin is aging from the nicotine, or that my teeth are yellowing, or that I’ll be infertile if I keep it up. She often emails me articles on the harmful effects of tobacco, but she crowds my inbox less frequently when I don’t leave my cigarettes lying around the house.

 

My mother calls once more on her way over, and I raise my voice trying to get her to listen to my directions, aware how harsh Hungarian can sound to an American ear at such a volume, while Dean straightens up around me. Eventually, my mother shows at Dean’s front door, which I have a key to that hasn’t made its way onto my keychain yet. Somehow that would make it all too real.

 

Sweat tracks my mother’s blond hairline. She sports a multicolored backpack that was once mine and has a bottle of ginger kombucha tucked into her arm. She kisses Dean on both of his cheeks like they’re familiar and must register shock on his face because she says, “No worry, my husband don’t know where I am.” Then she laughs. “I joke, he don’t care where I am.”

 

I don’t dare look to see what Dean makes of this. I wonder where my dad thinks my mother is, whether he has her on his mind at all right now. I suddenly realize how long it’s been since I worried about my parents like this, like how hearing an old song brings back memories you forgot you had. And like how hearing that old song makes you realize that the music you’ve listened to in the past few years is so different now, a stark contrast to your past tastes.

 

My mother sits on the futon while Dean and I settle on the carpet. We set our wine glasses on the scratched coffee table before us. Dean offers my mother wine, but she declines.

 

“When did you quit drinking?” I ask.

 

“When Dad start smoking,” she says. And there it is: she hasn’t even taken off her shoes yet and already she’s told me more than I wanted to know. I push her comment away like you do with the pain of a pulsing ankle after stumbling on the sidewalk. As a smoker myself, she might regard me an accomplice. It’s territory I’d rather steer clear of.

 

“Did you just come from the gym?” I ask, referencing the sweat.

 

She shakes her straight bangs across her forehead, curtains swaying in the wind. “I do Zumba on YouTube after he leave. Before I call you.”

 

Because my mother always speaks Hungarian with me, it’s a constant surprise to hear her English. Her accent is harsher than my father’s. She chops English syllables into angular squares, whereas my father’s English is more garbled. If he speaks too fast, he trips over liquid consonants. My mother never speaks fast in English, weighing each word as it tumbles out her thin lips. Once, when we were at a drive-thru a few years ago, the cashier told her she would have to learn English before she orders at their establishment. She told him, “English is my fifth language. How many language you know? You think you smart? Ask some order in Hungarian. Try.”

 

My mother rests her elbows on her knees and says, “The class I am taking at The Center, you know, our teacher say sweat clean emotions, chakras, and alcohol clog them, so I don’t drink while I finish this level of class. The kombucha,” she points to the glass bottle on the coffee table, “is okay.”

 

“What kind of class is this?” Dean asks, and I want to kiss him for entertaining my mother on a night she interrupted our plans. I already sense he’s sniffing down the wrong trail though.

 

My mother discovered The Center through a friend at the all-you-can-eat buffet where she works. The Center is actually more like an adobe-style house in a residential neighborhood in Spring Valley. The woman who runs it, a retired showgirl named Sherry, is about my mother’s age and lives there alone. I attended some of their by-donation sessions on meditation and positive thinking with my mother before I met Dean.

 

My mother dragged my father along to a group session once, too, after which he apparently complained about “the stench of those dirty hippies.” The fact that he hasn’t returned to The Center may not be the worst thing, because for the first time since we moved to the States my mother at least gets together with people who aren’t my father’s friends.

 

“We’re learning much, much things,” my mother says. “Right now, we learn palm reading.”

 

I glance at Dean, expecting to catch him rolling his eyes at this hippy-dippy stuff, because when I asked him what his horoscope was back when we met in Intro to Psych last semester, he scrunched up his shoulders and said, “Don’t know. Don’t care.” I later found out he’s a Taurus. Now the wine glass is to his mouth, his head tilted back, his eyebrows high on his face. Curious is preferable to haughty. I’ll take what I can get.

 

My mother retrieves a white textbook from her backpack and deposits it on the coffee table with a thud. The cover bears a hand drawn in black with a series of lines crossing the palms, like a messy intersection of freeways.

 

“You know basics,” my mother says to me. “Heart line, head line, life line.” She points to each corresponding black line on the book cover.

 

Dean puts his hand on my knee, like he might want to hold me back from dark forces. Beads of sweat form instantly between our skin.

 

“But do you know line of marriage?” my mother asks.

 

I shake my head, certain I can feel the wine sloshing around in my brain. I look to Dean, excited.

 

“I don’t know about any of this,” he says. Now he sounds more cautious than curious.

 

“Number of marriage lines is number of marriages,” my mother says. “But not only line is important, also how deep. It show how good.” My mother holds up her hand and points somewhere below the crook of her pinkie and ring fingers. She sits too far away for me to make out the lines. Or else the wine is blurring my vision. She reaches for Dean’s hand, and he leans closer. “See,” she points, “you will do one good marriage.”

 

I scoot in to see the deep, red line, no longer than a pin, and I’m amazed I never noticed it before. It’s so dark. I’m hesitant to look him in the eye, seeing as how we’ve never talked about marriage, and all this vaguely implies me, but when I look up, he’s wiggling his fingers at me like I’ve just proposed to him. I want to tell him he’s going to make a beautiful bride someday, but before I can, my mother grabs my hand.

 

She squints, then holds it out far before drawing it close again. “You don’t have.” She looks at me, practically disappointed, the corners of her mouth drooping.

 

“Thanks,” I say.

 

Dean pats my arm. “I’m sure that’s not true. May just take a while for it to come in,” he says, and I think he’s taking a jab at me about my age again. We’ve got six years between us. Dean had already lived a whole other life dealing cards at the MGM Grand before he decided to go back to school, where we met. My parents weren’t elated about the age difference until they rationalized that having an older man by my side might mean I’d become financially independent a lot sooner. They swear they’re not trying to push me out of the house, but the air is so still when they’re both home that it’s enough to keep me at Dean’s for weeks on end.

 

“You don’t believe in this anyway,” I say to Dean, suddenly protective. Of what, I don’t know.

 

He stares a hole into my cheek, then pours the remaining drops from the bottle into his glass and disappears into the kitchen with it.

 

“What about you?” I ask my mother.

 

She holds her palms against each other.

 

I scoot along the carpet and settle at her knees. “Come on.”

 

She shows me her right hand. Her line is much lighter than Dean’s and more frayed. It fans out at the edge of her hand into smaller, even less pronounced lines. She shows me her left to compare. It’s got two thick, pronounced lines.

 

“What does this mean? How come they don’t look the same?”

 

My mother flips to one of the yellow sticky notes that marks a passage in her book. “According to this,” she says in Hungarian, “the left hand shows the potential while the right hand shows what you’ve done with that potential.”

 

I sidestep the obvious remark, silently note my awe at how our relationships leave tracks on our bodies, wonder what it might mean for us that Dean hasn’t left a visible impression on me yet. Instead, I ask, “So, who’s the other line on your left?”

 

“Your father is the only man I’ve ever been with,” my mother says evenly, almost sternly, as if I’ve hinted at infidelity. If I had, it wasn’t intentional. I want to correct myself, tell her that I was insinuating the future, not the past, but I don’t want to dig myself any deeper than I already am.

 

My mother has often recounted the story of how she’d been one of few girls in town with a suitor from the city. My father would roll in on his shiny motorcycle and whisk her away to various tourist destinations around Hungary, and once, even to Italy. She says that his ride and his pilot’s jacket hooked her, but what got her to marry him was how much farther he could see than any other man she’d met. He was always looking for ways to get beyond the cards he’d been dealt, striking up conversations with the smartest looking men, always amiable and gracious, but always with the latent intent of finding the ticket to achieving more. Once the Iron Curtain fell, he stacked these connections like dominoes to come to America. It happened one day to the next apparently. He showed up unannounced at her parents’ house on his motorcycle and declared she had two days to pack if he wanted to join her in Los Angeles. It took them five years and a series of odd jobs before they settled in Las Vegas.

 

Dean turns off the lights in the kitchen and strolls out to the living room, hands empty of his wine glass. He grabs bedding and a towel from the linen closet and hands them to my mother. “Make yourself comfortable,” he says. “I’m headed to bed.”

 

I get up from the carpet, my ass sore. “We don’t have class tomorrow, so we’ll probably be sleeping when you get up.” We tell my mother good night and head into Dean’s bedroom.

 

I collapse on his bed atop the sheets and blankets carelessly strewn about. I check my phone for notifications from my dad but don’t find any. I can’t articulate why I’m surprised that my mother was right: he’s not looking for her.
Dean closes the door carefully, takes off his shirt, and lays down next to me. A plane flies overhead and rattles the walls, and once again I feel like we’re in a flimsy doll house. Dean positions my head on his chest. I know the move; I used it last week to get him to forgive me for staying out late with friends without answering any of his texts or calls. I’d told him I couldn’t feel it vibrate, but the truth is I just wanted something from my life before him that still felt entirely my own. I felt like I’d gained hours in which to be a formal self.

 

He strokes my hair. His fingers are soft, but every so often he gets tangled in a knot. By the third time, we’re laughing about it, little bursts of laughter that make us tremble.

 

I take his hand off my head and place it on the crease where my hip meets my waist. He moves down my back and caresses me in circles, like polishing a crystal ball. I give in to the motion, try to imagine what hazy future scene of my life he might be seeing on my crystal-ball-back. When a clear scene doesn’t come to my head, I lean onto my elbow and slide his basketball shorts down his thighs, take him in. He fills the anxious space inside me. What quivers, he makes still. When I rock on top of him, I picture for a moment that we share the organs where our bodies meet. What blood pumps through me pumps through him too.

 

When we are done, I notice that there is no light from the living room seeping through the crack under the door. Dean gets up and dresses. While he pulls his shirt over his head, I ponder dates. The last time my father picked up smoking, was it before, after, or during the time he commuted to Phoenix for his newest business venture, the next big thing that’d make us rich: screen printing T-shirts? And when was it, exactly, that my mother and I spent those weeks looking for an apartment for the two of us to move into? Dean’s hand is on the doorknob and he’s just asked me, I think, about whether I’m going to join him for a smoke when I say, “You know, I was a sophomore in high school when my mother tried moving me and her out of the house.”

 

Dean sits down on the edge of the bed, silent. I’m only aware of the weight being redistributed on the mattress, and the top of the brown hairs on his head, where I’m looking. “I mean, not really move us out. It felt serious when we’d drive around to different apartment complexes. She’d handed me a stack paper with stats about each apartment that she’d found online. We never went inside any of them. Never met with anyone to show us around. It was kind of as if she was in some—”

 

“—like a fantasy,” Dean says.

 

“Yeah,” I look into his green eyes finally. What I don’t want to admit, though, is how much I started to revel in the fantasy, too, and not only because living in an apartment just my mother and me would’ve meant not waking up to my parents’ yelling in the middle of the night anymore. There were other, juvenile reasons why I was excited. Like that many of the apartment complexes we were looking at were closer to my friends’ houses. Or that while driving around a neighborhood there’d be a boy on his skateboard who’d catch my eye, and I’d imagine climbing a ladder to his bedroom while my mother was working the graveyard shift.

 

“That was around the time I started smoking, actually.”

 

Dean looks at me in surprise. “I didn’t pick it up until I started dealing cards. It made being enveloped in cigarette smoke all day a lot more enjoyable. I actually forced myself to get addicted just to keep the job.”

 

I laugh at the ludicrousness of that. “I’d steal smokes from the packs my dad would hide in his jacket or in his car on the weekends he’d be home. I don’t think he knew about it, but it kind of felt good to have a secret with him too.”

 

“To even the scales,” Dean says.

 

“Something like that. I don’t know what got my mom to stay in the end. I doubt she ever told my dad about her plan to leave. If she left him today, I don’t even know if she would stay in America. But moving back to Hungary alone after being here so long, I have trouble picturing it.” I don’t, actually. I picture her in her hometown, taking care of her aging parents. I picture meeting her in ankle-deep snow for Christmas. I picture myself taking a junior year abroad in Budapest. It’s Dean that I have trouble picturing there with me.

 

Dean places his hand on my foot over the blanket. He’ll inch closer any minute and hold me without saying anything. What could he say anyway? I’d probably cut him off and just keep blabbering. And I don’t wanna blabber. I want a cigarette.

 

We tiptoe past the thick comforter on the futon. I lift the latch to unlock the sliding glass door slowly. Then we scoot it open just enough to fit our bodies through it sideways.

 

Outside, an empty bottle of kombucha rests beside the pack of cigarettes on the end table. I glance to my left, momentarily shocked to see someone sitting in the lawn chair beside the messy ashtray. My mother suddenly looks to me like a teenager at a music festival. By the light of the neighbor’s lamp, her hair looks orange. She rocks her head ever so slightly to a beat only she can hear. I have to remind myself that this is my mother so that I can see the woman sitting on the lawn chair as I’ve known her all my life. And I have to remind myself of her age so that I know how to speak to her and so that this unfamiliar feeling can leave me.

 

“You smoking, too?” I follow my words with a chuckle.

 

She chuckles along with me. “I never understand smoking,” she says. And with that, my mother has returned. I brace myself, ready to take whatever she’ll throw at me next while Dean and I light our cigarettes, feeling weightless from the initial hit of nicotine. I’m conscious of her looking at my face as I do.

 

“You can try it,” Dean says to her, his mouth slanted with a smirk. “Might help you get what it’s all about.”

 

“I try it in high school at the disco,” my mother says. “I holded it in my hand the whole time because when I put it to my mouth my eyes burning.”

 

“That happens,” I say, doing my best to sound natural, “but then you just close your eyes.”

 

She closes her eyes now, and I wonder if she’s misunderstood my English. Then, it almost looks as if she’s reaching for the smokes on the table beside her. Instead, she grabs the handle of the armchair and says, “Okay, I really sleep now,” and goes inside.

 

I cross the balcony to snag her chair. A white cigarette stands out against the blue canvas of the seat. I can’t know if she grabbed it from the pack or if it fell out before she sat down and she just never noticed it, but I sit down anyway, and take another drag to pacify myself.

 

“What did she come out here for, I wonder?” Dean says.

 

“I don’t know.” I stare at the overflowing ashtray beside me. Stacks of white and gray ash rest at its rim, flecks mark the cracking wood below it.

 

“I imagine she’s having a hard time shutting her brain off.”

 

“Maybe.” The ashtray smells more stale than smoky. Now that I’ve looked at it, I can’t un-smell it. “I’m surprised she didn’t say anything about us smoking.”

 

“Well, she must know that she can’t do anything about it. She can’t force you to quit.” He’s got his elbows up and behind him, resting on the handrail, so that he’s facing me.

 

“You don’t understand,” I say. “She never lets up. If she so much as catches a glimpse of my lighter, she’ll start going on about how she can see the skin around my eyes turning yellow or how my grandfather died of emphysema.”

 

“So why didn’t she say anything now? Because I’m here?”

 

“No, that’s not it,” I say.

 

“Then what is it?”

 

“That’s what I’m wondering.”

 

Between the blinds, I spot her feeling her way around the kitchen, looking for the light switch. I almost get up to help her, but then I see her find the handle of the fridge, open it up, and use the light of it to guide her way to the cupboard with the cups. Her movements are quick, almost careless, like she could be drunk. Like she’s finished off the rest of our wine in the time I haven’t been looking. Then I take a deep drag, let it fill my lungs to capacity, tilt my head back so my neck muscles are taut, and blow the smoke high above my head, waiting for the rumble of the next plane.

Colt said that to make up for it he’d take me on a trip. I chose Savannah because I’d always loved the name; I remember sitting in AP U.S. History (“ey push,” as my American classmates called it) and learning about Sherman’s pyromaniacal March to the Sea. How he’d spared just one city, the one called Savannah.

 

In my mind Savannah was golden grasslands, arid heat, and hazy turquoise seas, some hybrid between National Geographic footage and biblical resort town. It was all wrong, of course—the fantasy of an immigrant teen stuck in gray northeastern suburbs. By now, because of work, I’d stayed in many a small-town Marriott in the southeast industrial belt, and my understanding of the South had taken on the dripping gloom of True Detective. Still, I’d never made it to Savannah, and held onto it as some kind of metaphor for exceptional salvation. Savannah, too beautiful to burn.

 

After landing and renting the car, we’d barely gotten on the highway when Colt said he was hungry. We stopped at a three-lane-wide Chick-Fil-A drive-thru. I saw Colt checking out the teenager handing over orders in the rearview mirror. We ate our Chick-Fil-A sandwiches in the parking lot of a nearby gas station, overlooking a Walmart.

 

“You want the rest of your Polynesian sauce?” Colt asked, mouth full. He’d torn off half his sandwich in one bite.

 

“I do,” I said.

 

He gave me a funny look. The sauce was red and sticky around the corners of his mouth. I counted to three—the clenches of his jaw. Then he was up, slamming the car door. “Taking a piss,” I heard through the glass. I threw my half-full packet of Polynesian sauce into the grease-soaked bag.

 

I stared out the windshield and counted the number of camouflage outfits. People wishing to be one with and undetected in nature, decked out in pixelated brown-green vests and baseball caps, sticking out like eyesores on the sun-baked concrete of the Walmart parking lot. Even an idling Domino’s pizza truck was sheathed in camo print.

I was once a tree in a middle school play, and all I remember from the performance was the gratitude I felt looking at the back of the glossy blond heads of the children who played lead roles. I wasn’t them. I wasn’t needed; I could slip offstage, and nothing would have changed.

 

Colt said he played Brick in a high school production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. “Wrong production. I’d have been a better Stanley Kowalski,” he said. He was right. Colt was tall, dense, always hungry, more Stanley than melancholy Brick. His appetites and moods changed quickly. Not an hour after we’d stopped for food, he was already chugging a plastic pouch of TastyBites from Costco. He clenched the pouch so it was tube-shaped in his fist, and when he squeezed, the brown beany mixtures shot up and the smell of chana masala permeated the car. “Indian gogurt,” he laughed. A dribble of it ran down his knuckles. “Funny, right?”

 

I squinted at the skinny pines that stood like hair from swampy waters by the highway. The swamp was covered with a thin sheen that, in the slanted light, reflected the swirling iridescence of petroleum.

 

“Yeah,” I said. “Funny.”

 

—

 

Colt and I lived in New York. We’d met at a recruiting event, when he was an associate and I was a college senior. He later confessed that he’d pulled strings so I’d be hired onto his team, which specialized in automotives, which meant endless business trips together to the South. We always flew into Atlanta, dabbed sweat off our foreheads as we pulled our suitcases across the rental car lot, checked into separate hotel rooms. We never flirted in front of our colleagues.

 

Those were the happy times. Now I was no longer at the firm, and travel was no longer business class on domestic airlines, secretly thrilling. I had a Van Cleef and Arpels ring, and Colt had been named VP and was “dealing with a lot of stress.” We spent a lot and drank a lot. After the first time it happened, Colt took me to Turks and Caicos. The second time, to Venice. And this time I said why not Savannah, why not the South, why not just go and see if it does us good. The South was special for us.

 

We checked into a victorian house a block off Forsyth Park, and Colt said he’d take me to a pre-dinner drink. “You’re so tense,” he said, his thumb digging into the hollow of the bone behind my ear. He liked to hold my face when we kissed, a forceful grip cradling the length of my jawline and the base of my skull. I once described this to my girlfriends as sexy, and they’d nodded uncertainly. Colt and I are happy, I’d said defensively, and showed them the ring.

 

The Savannah guesthouse was one Jackie O. once stayed in. I prided myself on being a good trip researcher, on making informed choices. “Colt, I read about this bar on the rooftop of the Perry Lane Hotel,” I said. “We could go there.”

 

“Where did you read about it?”

 

“Condé Nast Traveler.”

 

“Baby, speak English.”

 

I knew he was being funny again. His smile in the mirror was huge as he watched me tap the concealer along the bridge of my nose, around the edges of my mouth, and underneath my eyes, two taps underneath the right eye and five taps underneath the left eye, where the bruise was still fading, then smooth it over like a game of connect the dots, only it was my face I was outlining into existence.

 

—

 

From the rooftop bar, dusk was a splendid gradient of burnt orange to dark red, and I tried to notice the lights the way an old painting teacher told me to: the lit-up white of the church steeple, the neon lights spelling out SAVANNAH on the side of a windowless concrete building, the red blinks of cranes and oil refineries, the interior of a brightly lit Pottery Barn. I could take a picture and post it for our New York friends to see, caption it something arty. The trip had been last-minute; they didn’t know we were here. Impromptu, just us, a getaway from the stress that was getting to him, Colt had whispered the morning after that awful night.

 

I put my phone away. It had gotten chilly, night falling too suddenly over Savannah. It was as if someone had hit a switch and everything suddenly became banal, the string lights, the Latin jazz music from the rooftop speakers, the Corpse Reviver cocktails in our hands.

 

We ate at a restaurant with starched tablecloths that specialized in exotic meats. Colt ordered antelope steak. The antelopes were raised on a farm in Texas, we were told, so they wouldn’t be gamey, but more like lean red beef. This didn’t deter Colt—if there was antelope, Colt would get antelope. I imagined this farm, a flat grassland amidst oil rigs, the delicate horned creatures imported and bred for slaughter.

 

Colt had a habit of chatting up waiters about “the good stuff only locals know,” a line of questioning that, in our consulting days, usually yielded recommendations to roadside BBQ joints or seedy strip clubs. I used to smile politely while he did this, as the men around the table belched and grinned. It was on a business trip in St. Louis that Colt and I first got together. He’d stayed after our colleagues left to close out the round with his corporate Amex. As always, after I’d gotten drunk, I’d started crying. Colt had pulled me into his arms in the deserted lobby bar, whispered into my hair: “I know. I know you had to work harder than anybody else.”

 

I always thought back to that moment. The moment I kissed the man who’d given me my job, the man whose Murray Hill apartment I now lived in, the man who said he’d take care of me, of everything.

 

The waiter, having delivered Colt’s antelope and my scallops, answered Colt with no hesitation: “Go to Armadillo Island. You’ve gotta take the ferry from Euclid. It’s got all these abandoned mansions and wild horses.”

 

“Wild horses?” Colt perked up.

 

“Is it safe?” I asked.

 

“Oh yes, ma’am,” the waiter said. He was a tall, elderly man with a slight hunch. “Run by the National Park Service as a wildlife refuge. Pack in, pack out.”

 

“Let’s go tomorrow,” Colt said, turning to me.

 

“I already booked a tour of the Mercer house for tomorrow,” I said. “We can go Sunday.”

 

“You know yourself. If we wait there’ll be a reason not to go.” Colt pulled out his phone. “I’ll buy the ferry tickets online right now.”

 

“It really is worth it, sir.” The waiter said. “Would you like another glass of wine?” The old man turned abruptly toward me.

 

I massaged the patch of skin underneath my left eye. The vein there was throbbing. “What about the Mercer house?” I asked Colt.

 

The waiter averted his gaze. “She’ll have another.” Colt told him jovially.

 

I crossed my arms and said nothing. Colt ate his antelope. The new glass of wine sat there, untouched, until Colt snapped the leather bill-holder shut over a pair of crisp twenties. He was always big-hearted with waiters.

 

—

 

Euclid had only a smattering of kitschy seafood cafés that wouldn’t open until lunch, and there was nowhere to get coffee, not even a vending machine. My temples were hurting. We’d driven down the Georgia coast in the dark in order to make the morning ferry, and a boy in a park ranger outfit greeted us outside the NPS visitor center. “The ferry will be leaving from the dock in half an hour.” He addressed Colt but was obviously trying not to stare at me. He really looked so young, like a boy scout. “Make sure not to miss it, there’s only one.”

 

“Got it,” Colt said. “And there’s no food on the island?”

 

“No food for retail, sir.” The boy scout blinked. “It’s pack-in, pack-out.”

 

“We’ve got sandwiches,” I said. We’d stopped by a Kroger the previous night for Boar’s Head gouda and deli meat and some Hawaiian rolls. Colt didn’t like sweet bread, but the store was closing and so that’s what I picked up while he waited in the car.

 

“Good,” the boy scout said, still not looking at my face. “And remember, don’t feed the wild horses. Best to keep a distance.”

 

“Sure,” Colt said. He squinted at the marshes. There was a thick cloud layer hanging low over the water, giving the morning a gray glare. “Weather gonna clear up?”

 

“It’s coastal weather, sir. Could shift easily.”

 

There was an old couple on the ferry and no other passengers. The captain was a man with dirty blond strands and a plaid shirt. It wasn’t a pretty ride. The mouth of the river split open into marshes and industrial refineries clotted over the horizon. Colt started talking loudly about the time he took the Provincetown Ferry and it hit and killed a great white shark. I’d heard the story before. I think he wanted to impress the captain, but the captain only stared ahead dead-eyed. The woman in the old couple was studying Colt with pursed lips, but when I made eye contact, she looked down.

 

I took out my phone and tapped the camera icon so it became a mirror. Then I saw. Colt looked away as I discreetly reapplied the foundation that must’ve rubbed off when I was dozing in the car. He hadn’t made any comments. Of course, he couldn’t bring himself to. Ironically, he’d always been the kind of man who claimed he liked his women “natural,” not caked with concealer.

 

We slowed as we approached a dock jutting out of an enormous landmass of low palms and dense oaks. The old couple didn’t get up. I wondered if they were retired, riding the ferry back-and-forth just to wait out their days in this Georgia town.

 

“Four p.m.’s the last ferry, right?” I asked the captain as Colt and I stepped off the boat.

 

“The only one,” he said. “And we don’t wait.”

 

“But we’re the only passengers getting off,” I said. The captain was already untying the rope from the post. He shrugged. “Are there more people on the island?” I pressed. “Camping?”

 

“No overnights allowed,” he said. “Everybody who comes needs to go. One in, one out.” And with that he was back into the boat cabin, and I watched as the ferry pulled away, puttering in the gray water until it disappeared into the marshes. So we really were alone.

 

Colt had gone beyond the dock to inspect a pile of rusty bicycles. The wind by the shore whipped the trees wildly, and a clump of Spanish moss landed on the ground right next to him, nearly hitting his head. He didn’t notice. “Check out these bikes!” He was calling.

 

“Are there trails?” I asked. Colt had stayed up stalking the internet about this island, his face carved upside-down in the cellphone’s glow. I’d done the same, and I knew there were trails, but Colt liked to think he was in control.

 

“Sure,” he said. “Here’s a bike with a decent chain; take it.”

 

I took a step toward the rattling thing he had propped up for me. It had no brake. “You trust it?”

 

Colt was already astride his own bike, his long legs deploying in slow motion as he pedaled around me in a circle. “I’ll carry you if it breaks down. How about that?”

 

We set forth on the main path, a bumpy trail of dredged sand and shell bits and shark teeth. The island really did feel primordial, the old growth forests joining branches above the path, draped with gray-green moss strands that swayed lightly in the wind. It was winter and the greenery was faded save for the vibrant palmettos, their leaves like blades of green fanned out over the low canopy. I pumped my pedals hard after Colt, who was speeding ahead with childlike glee. “Let’s go find the wild horses!” he shouted.

 

For miles and miles we cycled. The nature became monotonous along the straight path. At one point we passed by what looked like an abandoned airfield, where the forest had been razed. But there were no horses. Colt stopped to drink some water and pointed to something in the bushes. “There’s a trail there,” he said. “A horse trail, probably. Maybe they don’t like to hang out by the main path. They can smell the human presence.”

 

The wild grass in the airfield bristled in the wind. The air smelled of something rotten, and it made me light-headed. “Okay,” I said, “but not far.” We tossed our bicycles onto the razed field and followed the trail into the forest. The ground was covered with bristly pine needles and gnarled roots. Colt walked ahead, pushing thorny stems aside with his fingers and holding them until I passed so they wouldn’t snag at me. After a few minutes, I touched his arm. “Let’s turn around,” I said. “There are no horses here. I don’t like being this far off-path.”

 

“But we’re almost by the water. I can smell it.”

 

It was true—the soil was looser, moister. The water reached inland with tentacular streams; it was all swamp, no beach. We were standing on a clearing next to a big oak tree and there was nowhere farther to go. “Let’s have lunch,” Colt said. I took the cheese and deli meat and bread out of my backpack and lay them on a flat rock. “Make them fast, before the ants get to them,” Colt said. I started slicing a tomato with the knife I’d taken from the rental. Colt was still staring at the spread.

 

“You know I don’t like Hawaiian rolls,” he said.

 

“The ants,” I said. “Hurry.”

 

“Every goddamn time.”

 

I ignored him. I assembled a sandwich and handed it to Colt, then made my own. He was like a big child, or rather a sulking teenager, scrolling on his phone as he chewed. But there was no data; I’d just checked.

 

“Apparently there’s an abandoned church along the path,” I said after a while. “I saw it on the map at the dock. But maybe there won’t be enough time to see it.”

 

“We have to be back for the ferry at 4:00 p.m. Plenty of time.”

 

“If you say so,” I said.

 

Colt was dragging at the ground with the tip of his boot, unearthing an oyster shell. “It’s funny,” he said. “The shells make a big circle around this tree. It’s like someone was here. Shucking and eating oysters. You think it’s one of the island’s secret residents?” He scooted closer to me on the rock, giving me a nudge of the hip. “A ritiual of these horses we can’t see?”

 

I busied myself with putting the food back into ziplock bags. “They’re probably just a myth made up to lure tourists.”

 

“You wanna bet?” His fingers were loosening my scarf, his mouth nuzzling my neck. I sighed and let myself go soft, pliable. He pulled me onto his lap, facing him and the old growth forest behind him. He undid our zippers and pulled down my pants. I closed my eyes. He clenched my hips and the pain was sharper than I expected. He’d spit on his hands but it wasn’t enough, it was not like before, a tangle of organs slick with lust. Sweetbread also means thymus and pancreas, I thought. When I opened my eyes again the Spanish moss was swaying overhead like prayer flags, and I had the acute sense that someone was watching us.

 

“Colt,” I said. “Colt, stop.”

 

“What?” His breath was short against my ear.

 

“I heard something.” And indeed there was a louder rustling of leaves, and I jumped off Colt’s lap, pulling my pants up, and he sprung to his feet as well.

 

“Is that a horse?” he shouted, but we couldn’t see anything. The rustling started up again, and he pointed at a bush. “There!”

 

It was a very large rat with an insect’s scaly carapace, digging its snout into the fecund soil.

 

“Armadillo. It doesn’t care about us,” Colt said with amazement. “It’s not even aware that we’re these big scary animals.”

 

“Or maybe it’s used to it,” I said, strapping my backpack on. “Let’s get back to the bikes.” I wanted to get far away from the armored rat, for us to keep moving.

 

“I read about them online,” Colt said. “You know why it’s covered with scales? So if a predator attacks, the armadillo can jump into a thornbush, and the predator can’t follow.”

 

The creature hobbled away, a mutant from the Jurassic era. “Let’s go,” I repeated. This time I ploughed ahead along the horse trail, not caring about thorns. I felt the prickle of tears, but Colt hated it when I cried. I wondered if the old couple would still be on the ferry. It was only when the airfield came back into view that I turned around to see if Colt was following. He was, and he held something misshapen in his hand.

 

“Guess what,” he said.

 

He shoved the misshapen object closer to my face. It was soiled and scaly, with a wet rat-like snout. A small armadillo, an infant. I shrieked and he dropped the thing, laughing.

 

“What did you do?” I gasped. “Did you kill it?”

 

“I did nothing,” he said. “It was there on the trail. You walked right over it.”

 

“Why did you pick it up?” I couldn’t even look at the carcass. “That thing is dirty. The bacteria. Why did you touch it?”

 

He stretched out his arms and lumbered toward me, grunting, trying to wipe his fingers on my shirt. “Leprosy!” he grimaced. “Armadillos carry leprosy!”

 

“Stop!” I said. I didn’t realize I’d actually started crying until I saw that familiar contrite look on his face.

 

“Come on. It’s funny.”

 

I tried to steady my breath. “It’s not funny.”

 

Colt kicked the dead armadillo aside like a deflated soccer ball. “Hey,” he said. “Why did you ask me if I killed it?”

 

“The air on this island—” I said. “It’s so humid it’s giving me a headache. I know you didn’t kill it. I’m sorry.”

 

He got back on his bike, not looking at me. “I would never kill a living thing.”

 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

 

“I’m just trying to make you laugh. You never laugh, not anymore.” He was still talking, head-down, to his pedals.

 

“It’s okay, Colt,” I said. I flung my leg over the bike, and my pelvis felt sore and raw over the seat.

 

He sighed and plowed forward. “If you say so,” I heard him sing-song.

 

The white path stretched ahead, potholed with deep puddles from a recent rain. When we rode across them it was like gravity itself was slowing us down, dragging us into the mud. We would never make it to that abandoned church, I thought. But suddenly Colt came to a hard brake ahead of me.

 

“I saw something,” he said. “It was definitely tall enough to be a horse.” He got off his bike. “Let’s follow it.”

 

“Colt, no. Let’s just stick to the path.”

 

But he’d already taken a few steps into the bushes. “There!” he called out with excitement. “I see the steeple! Didn’t you want to see the church? Right over there.”

 

I followed close after him. The trail opened up to a depressed clearing, like the ground had sunk ever so slightly, and in the middle of it was an enormous white building with wide steps and columns and porches and a tall steeple. Colt ran toward it. The white paint looked unchipped and fresh, so fresh it had a minty tint to it. The live oaks surrounding the church were enormous, their branches low and horizontal. There was an old picnic table underneath one of them, not far from the church entrance, and I sat there while Colt circled the building. “Doesn’t look abandoned at all,” he said. He was pressing his face against one of the windows. “Can’t see inside though. The windows are treated with some kind of black tint.”

 

“You can’t see them, but they can see you,” I said.

 

He didn’t hear me. He circled toward the front porch. “There’s an announcement on the door.” He leaned in to read, then shook his head and came back to the picnic table. “Funny. Says there are two services a day. One at three thirty and one at midnight. Maybe the horses come here for midnight mass.”

 

I checked my watch. It was 3:29 p.m.

 

Right then the church bell chimed. Colt’s eyes opened wide, and at first I thought it was the eeriness of wondering who was striking the bell, but then I saw he was staring at something beyond my head. “Don’t move,” he said. “Or move slowly. There’s one. There’s one right behind you.”

 

I froze. My fingers clutched my backpack. “It’s so skinny,” Colt said. “It doesn’t look healthy. Something wrong with its eyes.”

 

Slowly I turned my head. There was a horse, coming around the church, its coat black and patchy, like it had fought and was barely healing. It was small, so emaciated it looked skeletal. Its eyes were a cloudy white.

 

“Give me your backpack,” Colt said.

 

“Colt, no.” My voice was barely above a whisper.

 

“It’s starving. It wants something.” He wasn’t bothering to be quiet. He ripped the backpack from my hands and turned it upside down, emptying out its contents on the picnic table. His hands were shaking, fumbling around the objects, then he found the Boar’s Head ham and started tearing at the meat. “Bet that’s why they killed the armadillo. Starving to death.”

 

“Colt, you know it didn’t kill the armadillo.”

 

The horse slowly turned its head toward us, hearing the noise. But with its cloudy eyes it was impossible to tell whether it was looking at us. Colt flung a shred of meat toward it.

 

The horse’s nostrils flared. “You’re going to make it angry,” I said. “The ranger told us not to feed them. We’re going to miss the ferry.”

 

“We’re going to miss the ferry!” He repeated, nasally. The horse was sniffing at the piece of meat on the ground. The horse was eating the meat. It can’t be, I thought. Its jowls clenched, and its eyes stayed open, staring at us or not at all, impossibly white. When it finished chewing it reared its head in our direction.

 

“My hands are all slimy,” Colt said. He picked up another shred of meat, dangling it. A muscle in the horse’s neck spasmed. It took a small step closer.

 

“Put it down,” I pleaded, my eyes on the horse. Its tongue was lolling. “We’ve got to go. Something’s wrong with this horse.”

 

Colt let the shredded meat drop to the floor, then turned slowly to me. There was that glint in his eyes that I knew well. “Something’s wrong? Something’s always wrong.”

 

“Colt, don’t,” I begged.

 

“Something’s wrong with you for thinking I fucking killed that armadillo.”

 

The horse was advancing toward us now. It wanted more meat. Like a reflex my hands shot up to my face.

 

“The horse!” I screamed, trying to fight out of Colt’s grip. The knife was on the table, next to the half-tomato shaped like a red heart, and Colt screamed too, and the horse was ghostlike behind him, teeth out. It wanted more meat. There was no one around for miles, and this time it would be death, I thought. For a split second Colt loosened his grip and I leapt free, scrambling for the knife. Then survival was the only white hot force pitting me against the ghostly, snarling horse. I stabbed the blade deep into the horse’s flanks, slicing a long gash along its protruding rib, and it let out a terrible noise, so shrill and anguished that it shook the moss and pierced through the canopy of oaks and reverberated around the entire island, so shrill and anguished it sounded almost human. Its cloudy eyes rolled in its skull, thick red blood oozing from the gash, but my arm came down again, and again, slashing into its coat. It was all bones. Its hind legs buckled as it let out another noise, more of a whimper this time, and I kept slashing because I knew it was me or him, I slashed until its entire flank was a mess of lacerated muscle and blood, until it was just a carcass on the ground, fur and bones and ribs. Its eyes never closed, white as the sky.

 

When I came to Colt was on the grass, next to the knife, his big robust limbs limp yet twitching like jelly. Tears streaked down his cheeks. He was reaching out for me. “He wanted more meat,” I said, my voice hoarse and alien. “We’ve got to go. It’s four.”

 

I sank down next to Colt, the palmetto and oak forest around us bristling and bending in the wind. His shirt was stained crimson by blood, all the blood that ghostly emaciated horse had shed, but when I looked for the horse I couldn’t find it, and instead, through the oaks and the low afternoon fog that had seeped from the sea, I saw the dock. Somehow we had cycled back to the dock. The ferry was at the dock’s end, engine rumbling, and I could see the two huddled white heads of the old couple through the condensation on the cabin window. The captain was on the deck, rope in one hand, ready to unmoor. He checked his watch, squinted, then waved impatiently. One in, one out, he’d said.

 

“Go,” I told Colt.

 

Colt’s eyes were wide and unblinking. I remembered how he always used the hand he’d raised and ran his thumb gently along my left cheekbone, where the concealer had long eroded, and I could tell he was always really sorry.

The ferry blew its horn again. I knew it would take him. Dusk was approaching and the old growth forest stirred with shadows. The horse carcass was gone from its pool of blood. One in, one out. One push, one pull. Like the pulsations of arteries that feed into the million broken pieces of an organ that nonetheless keeps pumping. I picked myself up. I started, arduously at first, back up the path, then broke into a trot, eyes set on the church steeple amidst the darkening foliage. I knew the wild horses were waiting.

It’s his son’s first time driving a roundabout. It’s a Friday just before rush hour, and Nate has drawn the short straw of showing Liam how to do it. Leah was so anxious that she made them go by themselves, saying that she was tired, that the forecast wasn’t great, that she’d stay home. It does look like rain, the sky blown into stone, the air on the verge of slick. As they back out of the drive, Nate stares at the house, thinking of the desiccated remnants of his latest apology. He thinks of Leah leaning over their daughter, Sylvia, of Sadie, their standard-issue goldendoodle, with her tongue lolling stupidly. He thinks of what more he could possibly say.

 

—

 

Then there they are, at the edge of the roundabout, and when it’s Liam’s turn, he freezes. Behind them, a car honks its dissonant horn. Nate can see a man in sunglasses with both hands in the air.  He tries to keep his voice level, a nervous heat quavering in his throat.

 

“Liam, go,” Nate says.

 

“I can’t,” Liam says.

 

“Just wait for this one to pass.”

 

Nate watches Liam’s leg stiffen on the brake.

 

Leah had said he wasn’t ready, asked Nate if he was sure he wanted to do this. And Nate had said that he needs to learn, that she might want some time alone anyway. She’d said fine. On this fundamental point it seemed they were agreed, that it would be best if he weren’t around.

 

“Liam, you gotta go,” Nate says, his voice dusted with exasperation. Behind them, the line of cars grows from one to two. Then two to five, the honking monotone, laced with invective. “Do you want to switch?” Nate asks.

 

It’s nearing rush hour. The traffic is only going to get worse.

 

“No,” Liam says. “I want to do it.”

 

“Alright,”  Nate says, looking back at a gigantic truck on a menacing lift kit. The first note of rain hits the windshield.

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yeah,” Liam says shakily.

 

Finally, a break in the traffic. It’s clear. The allegro of rain pounds as Nate watches his son’s foot ease off the break and onto the accelerator.  He can almost feel the relief in the other cars even as thunder slides past the clouds overhead.

 

Now they’re in it. Hand slaps of rain peppering the windshield. Nate is trying not to shake, as he finally understands Leah’s trepidation in full. His hand slips into his pocket for his phone, the entire world swirling in watercolor as they round the first bend.

 

—

 

Then the roads leading into and out of the roundabout are gone, along with the line of cars behind them. They’re at what used to be the second exit arcing around, but it’s gone as well, as though the earth had opened to absorb it. The darkness of the storm presses.

 

“Just keep going,” Nate says, thumb jamming the phone, dialing Leah.

 

The streets are gone. There’s a nothingness outside the roundabout, father and son locked inside.

 

“Dad,” Liam says.

 

“Drive,” Nate says, not wanting to give away that this was, in fact, worse than any fear Leah could have possibly dreamed up.

 

Finally, Leah picks up. She’s on speaker.

 

“Hey,” she says flatly. Unperturbed. Always on solid ground.

 

“Hey,” Nate says. They drift around for a second lap in the rain.

 

“What?” she asks.

 

“I don’t know,” Nate says. “It’s just…”

 

“What, Nate?” she asks.

 

“We’re stuck,” Liam blurts.

 

Nate observes his own knuckles, the alien strings of the tendons in his hands tensing. In the background there’s the lilting sounds of Sylvia humming an indistinct tune.

 

“What do you mean?” she asks. “Like in a ditch?”

 

“106th street roundabout,” Nate says. “We can’t get out.”

 

They round the same, manicured median for another pass. In the middle juts a pristine concrete sundial engraved with the silhouette of a blue heron.

 

“You need to tell someone,” Nate says.

 

“The fuck, Nate?” she gasps.

 

He can feel her voice growing distant as they continue to circle. He can tell she doesn’t believe him. Again. Probably for good reason. They have their normal problems, their middle-America woes. As they make yet another lap, Nate realizes this is the beginning of a whole new set of troubles. Yet he can’t help imagining, as he has so many other times, their heads close together, a damp defense drifting from him into her, a breathy, tentative reconciliation.

 

“I know how it sounds,” Nate says.

 

“Who the hell would I even call? Goddammit, Nate,” she yells. “For real?” Sylvia’s humming extinguishes.

 

It’s only been a couple weeks. He should have gathered this would sound like a lie. Everything for a while will sound like a lie. Maybe it is.

 

“I don’t know how long my phone will hold a charge. Liam, turn yours off. We’re going to slow down and think about this. I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Nate says.

 

On the other end ethereal static.

 

“I love you,” Nate says.

 

“Yeah, I love you too,” Leah whispers. “Be careful.”

 

The rain slows.

 

“Slow down,” Nate says.

 

“Dad,” says Liam. “What the fuck are we gonna do?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

All of the strip mall corners are gone, all the whitewashed brick and towering billboards, the crush of conformity. It’s just them, circling. Around them a new sameness of boundless meadow where there once were streets crisscrossing and winding toward the highway. Everything flat and gouged out by ancient glacier. Green and tepid, flowing monochromatic. The sky above still gray. Luckily, Nate notes, a full tank, charged phones.

 

Goddammit, Nate, he can’t stop thinking in his wife’s voice.

 

He lets Liam keep driving, watching the landscape ripple, the world spin smaller into the absurd ease with which they now sat in silence, winding around the circle, thinking of what to do next. It’s been nearly an hour of silence and revolving. He can tell Liam is afraid.

 

“Should we call Mom again?” Liam asks.

 

“Nah,” Nate says.

 

He knows this is the last thing they need here, and in their own way, they seem to be adjusting already. The concrete circle. The smooth grass. Except Nate’s arms and torso feeling bounded and tight, lower back knotting up against the upholstery. He strains his eyes toward the horizon line, looking for anything.

 

“Are you and Mom okay?” Liam asks.

 

“We’re fine. Just one of those things.”

 

The rain stops, the lie gliding out of his mouth so easily. As he says this, the world seems to shift around them, a low luminescence brimming at the edges of the gloom left from the brief storm. Just the promise of shimmer.

 

“Maybe we should stop the car,” Nate says.

 

“Why?” Liam asks.

 

“To save gas,” Nate says.

 

“We have a full tank,” Liam says.

 

“I don’t know, bud,” Nate says. “Just stop. I need to get out and walk for a minute.”

 

He watches Liam pull over. However, behind his son’s straight face Nate can sense the roiling fear pooling in his jaw muscles.

 

“Turn the car off,” Nate says.

 

“I want to listen to the radio,” he says.

 

“Liam,” Nate says, thinking of his next set of lies, the way he might maneuver things back to normal, the way he might be able to get things back to the way before.

 

They stop. Liam gets out of the car, pulls out his phone, and holds it arm’s length in front of him. Nate watches him walking to the median then back across the concrete and out into the meadow, watches the steady light of his phone screen.

 

Nate’s phone goes off. A text.

 

Leah: Liam is streaming. What happened

 

Nate: No idea.

 

Leah: Call someone.

 

Nate: Why? They can’t get here. There’s no road.

 

He knows their marriage can’t take something like this. She’s typing again, the three dots holding his sanity. The sun breaks through the clouds.

 

Leah: I don’t know what to do

 

Nate: Me either

 

Leah: I’m sorry

 

Nate: Me too.

 

—

 

“Just tell me. What’s going on between you and Mom?” Liam asks when he returns.

 

“Nothing,” Nate says. He thinks of the slinking ease of his wife’s laughter.

 

In the distance, a chunk of meadowland rends itself from gravity, shoots upward into the sky. A green and tan mess zooming up. He watches it into the sky, hearing his son shouting behind him. Liam is there with his phone outstretched, breathing wildly, capturing the whole thing.

 

Then the shakes are over, his phone rings. It’s Leah, and he doesn’t know what he’ll say, so he lets it ring. In his mind he can still hear his justification, feel the heat of his face during the fight. The resignation of her limp arms as she sat on the bed, tearless. How he’d begged and pleaded with no real hope.

 

“Dad,” Liam shouts.

 

The earth shakes. He feels heavy, replete with an exhaustion so absolute that he crumbles and sinks to his knees, a sense of loss careening into his stomach, his collarbones.

 

“I’m calling Mom,” Liam says.

 

“No,” Nate shouts back.

 

“Why? What the hell is going on?”

 

“It’s just one of those things. We had a fight.”

 

“That’s not—” Liam says.

 

“Let’s get back in the car.”

 

“And go where?” Liam yells. “Dad!”

 

“I don’t know,” Nate says.

 

The ground trembles yet again, and another chunk of earth splits in the distance, rockets upward.

 

A new text.

 

Leah: It’s all over the news. Everyone saw you disappear.

 

Nate: Did you feel the earthquake?

 

Leah: What?

 

Nate: Nvm. I’m sorry

 

—

 

They’ve found there is a limit, an ethereal plane extending into the heavens near where the earth had blown itself upward at the very beginning.

 

But eventually those outside find a way in, at least to get them supplies. Gas cans appear. Razors and bottles of water, non-perishables. Car batteries and tools to install them. They pile what comes in heaps, Liam constantly reorganizing the boxy remnants like firewood. Reams of business cards and half-complete first-aid kits. They’ve found that they can’t send anything out, but they can receive. They still have cell service, but Leah hasn’t called to talk directly to Nate since their last conversation. Instead, she texts to tell him that she can’t get through on Liam’s phone anymore because of his constant streaming. He braces himself against the car. He’s tried to call, but she won’t pick up. He can feel the dispossession in his toes, the creeping ankle pain as he limps around the sundial when they hang up. He monitors Liam in the distance as he patrols the meadow, arms and phone locked in place, his head bobbing excitedly.

 

The narrative drags on in the media. It’s t like a hostage situation.

 

Liam gains millions of viewers on his live stream.

 

“Dad,” he says in an increasingly rare moment without his phone. “Please. Just tell me.”

 

“We’ve been through this, son,” Nate says. He’s taken to calling him son instead of bud or buddy or his name. The formality between them a growing cavern.

 

“Dad.”

 

The earth rumbles beneath them, and they both crouch next to the car, cover their heads as the sound of moving earth envelops them in a fetal white noise, threatening to break the very air they breathe as it moves through their open, screaming mouths.

 

Then it stops.

 

When they emerge, there’s a fully grown, ancient-looking forest crowning hills off in the distance, the same direction of where the ground seemed to threaten to come apart and shoot into the sky all at once.

 

Nate’s phone goes off.

 

Leah: We felt that one.

 

Nate: Can we talk?

 

Leah: No.

 

Nate: What about Liam?

 

Leah: We’ve been through this. I’m working on it.

 

—

 

Eventually they stop tracking the passage of days and are just glued to their phones, watching the coverage of their situation. On screen, the barrier shows itself as a resplendent cylinder around the 106th Street roundabout, gossamer cells of writhing light. The crowds swell by the day. Nate and Liam eat what they can, save their batteries, turn on the car only to charge their phones. They’ve traversed the entire meadow, explored the forest, breathed in all the scents of the wood, climbed to the top of the tallest trees they dared. Nate’s back is starting to hurt all the time, his muscles seeming to pile up on themselves in a way they never did even just a few years ago. Liam has all but stopped speaking to him, and yet Nate is glad he has his son with him.

 

He’s sitting in the passenger side of the car with the seat leaned all the way back when Liam comes up to the door and taps on the window. It’s gotten unseasonably hot outside. The air seems to be dripping.

 

“Dad, what happened?” Liam says. The pleading in his eyes, the longing to return to his half-open, sixteen-year-old life.

 

And yet a mysterious glint. His son’s hand gingerly wrapped around his phone.

 

“I told you it’s best not to talk about it.”

 

—

 

They’re sitting together in the car with the A/C cranked.

 

“Dad, please,” Liam says.

 

The sun beats down.

 

“Honestly, son, I don’t even know anymore,” Nate says. He ventures the half-lie into the stale air between them. The heat languid to the point the air glimmers outside the car. Sweat tingling on his collarbone.

 

A tremor beneath them. Nate closes his eyes. It’s over quickly. Nate raises his head, looks around the meadow, over the tops of the trees. Fire. Black soot seeps over top of the treeline, spiraling up in great smiles of smoke.

 

His phone goes off.

 

Leah: Some people think there’s a way.

 

Nate: Do you even want me to come?

 

Leah: I’m not doing this.

 

The fire burns the entire forest, but it’s been contained by something, leaving a stark, black line of ash in the grass. Deer, hawks, a cavalcade of insects run out of the blaze and vanish into thin air; as soon as they hit the barrier, there’s nothing left, not even a sound. Conversely, piles of fire extinguishers, USB chargers, takeout boxes grow into three small hillocks. It’s a one-way. Nate watches his son’s face lighting up when he turns the camera around with an effortless tap. Watches him casually pick over the latest food offerings and come up to the driver’s side door just as the moon glides into the sky.

 

—

 

The next night, his phone goes off as he’s on a walk back from the barrier. In the distance, Nate can see the oceanic light of Liam’s phone beaming from the driver’s side window.

 

Leah: They think there’s an opening. Are you coming?

 

Nate: I’m sorry.

 

Leah: Me too. I just can’t do this anymore.

 

Nate: What?

 

Leah: All of it. I’m so tired.

 

Nate: Do you think I wanted this?

 

As he nears the roundabout, Nate sees the light of Liam’s phone go out, hears the car ignition sputter. Then the car drops into gear, begins going in circles, headlights rotating at steady pace. Then the engine flares, a squeal of tires as Liam picks up speed.

 

“Hey,” Nate shouts. The light of Liam’s cell phone still flashing in his mind, the finality of his marriage brewing. His back burning as he runs. Perhaps this rift is too great to cross, too absolute. He can’t imagine a scenario in which they go back to the way things used to be.

 

The engine revs to deafening power just as he gets to the edge of the roundabout, and Nate is sure Liam will lose control. He has all the intention of just standing in the way, of just putting his entire body on the line, as he’s unable to offer much else. But as the screaming tires pass, he can’t bring himself to take the final step.

 

He screams at his son, unloading his guilt in great heaves as his breath tumbles out, his shoulders shake. Around him, he can feel wind pick up. Liam keeps driving around at speed. As Nate screams, the truth roars inside him. He can’t even remember what happened, now, what the origin of the rift was, how he’d been able to so utterly obliterate the life he’d fallen into, the family they’d made. All he knows is that the damage is irrevocable, that his cowardice is so complete. He screams and screams, the wind picking up, his skin roiling. He wants to shed himself, to just simply step outside himself and float into a billion particles without intention of reassembly.

 

The car is tilting dangerously. He still can’t bring himself to step in front of it. His legs won’t work, and he wonders if he secretly has no desire to do so, tries to convince himself that he would, yes, of course, do anything to stop his son harming himself. But this wondering breaks him and he falls to his knees, his throat seemingly on the verge of tearing as he just keeps on yelling.

 

Without warning, the car quiets and slows, pulls over into the grass. He hauls himself up from the damp ground and runs to the door, sees his son doubled over the steering wheel, the most magnificent tears he’s ever seen budding in Liam’s eyes.

 

—

 

The world around them shimmers into a vibrato of sobs. Liam keeps asking what happened, and Nate’s mind is murky as creek water. All he knows is that the memory is sliding, burning the base of his skull as he holds his son through the coming storm.

 

“Why won’t you tell me?” Liam asks, the quakes subsiding past anger into resignation. Nate sees the film over his son’s eyes through his own crying.

 

“I truly don’t know,” Nate says.

 

“That’s bullshit,” Liam says.

 

“I know,” Nate says.

 

“Just tell me, Dad,” Liam says.

 

Hearing the word ‘dad’ come out of his mouth sends a tremor through him. Nate’s arms slip from behind his son’s neck as he falls to his knees yet again, looking in the distance at what looks like a tear in the barrier. For a moment, he can see thousands of camera flashes, hear the twittering sounds of a crowd floating on the hot wind.

 

His phone goes off.

 

Leah: Did you see?

 

Nate: Yeah.

 

Leah: They say they’re ready.

 

“Dad,” Liam shouts above the tumult gathering on the wind.

 

“Let’s go,” Nate shouts back. “Move.”

 

The tear has grown wider, and the crowd is a mass of faces swaying in the oncoming storm. The whole scene wreathed in static light, the barrier finally giving way.

 

Nate takes the wheel. Whatever his sins, he will get his son out of this.

 

He checks his phone.

 

Leah: Are you coming?

 

Nate: On the way.

 

They clamber tearily into the car, and Nate slams the gas, drives around the pile of supplies just as the earth starts to shake again, gigantic stones floating upward just as they had that first day. In the rearview mirror, he can see an opening in the ground swallow all their provisions, mountains of sustenance and novelty tumbling down. The rain sheets as the world throws itself upward. As he drives, he realizes that he can barely remember his life up to this point, much less how all this started.

 

They’re past the copse of trees and wheeling toward the barrier opening. There are armored trucks, toneless voices booming through speakers, untold numbers of uniformed people walking in silhouette. He’s looking for Leah and Sylvia, remembering their presence, the lightness of their hands. The wind picks up and threatens to topple them just as they reach the technicolor opening, barging through into a bizarre mirror of the roundabout they’ve been living in. The same, all the signs of suburbia intact, reassembled from memory and solid as bone.

 

Liam opens the door and crashes to the pavement, lying flat. Paramedics rush in, and their voices are so quiet in the suddenly dry air, barely able to penetrate Nate’s senses. He can see a fist knocking on his window, mouths moving, but he clutches the steering wheel, trying to remember. He looks at his phone. Nothing. There’s a throbbing in his ears.

 

Sylvia and Leah are being ushered through the crowd, and when they emerge, they fall upon Liam in a mess of limbs. Boom mics are everywhere, it seems, vans and other vehicles, a crowd with a crush of voices stretching for what seems like miles. The knocking on his window grows louder, more insistent. Nate keeps checking his phone, waiting for the next message, the resolution, then watches his family embrace, the relief palpable in the way their shoulders move freely as they cry. His arms are heavy, laced with the faint tug of weeping exhaustion. His back burns. Coiled in his chest a smoky iteration of his guilt. He can’t grasp it, can’t get out and join them.

 

Then his family is falling away, a new barrier piling on top of itself around the car, a gilded web forming. The fists and knocks dissipating, the low hum of voices casting off into a watery silence as the rain returns to a plain highway lined with green. When everything settles, he’s on a straightaway with no end in sight.

Before we met up in Rome, I hadn’t seen Samuel in ten years, and most of what I recalled from our conversations on smoke breaks and at parties were details about his girlfriends—the one with the long nipples whom he had loved and who’d eventually left him for her high school sweetheart; the one with a dead little brother and a penchant for being choked; the one who was ethically non-monogamous yet completely obsessed with him. Did I remember these stories because I’d been a little in love with him? Or had he simply repeated them so many times?

 

During my library fellowship in Padua, I had spent my days in the dark of the archives taking photographs of very old books about plants and my nights walking back to my apartment through the rain to eat pasta and sausage and drink vino sfuso from the two-liter plastic bottles that I had refilled every Wednesday. I knew my last week in Italy would be greener as I ventured south to Rome, but I wanted it to be different, too. I had visions of myself like Timothée Chalamet in Call Me by Your Name, suddenly young and trembling underneath someone’s hands. Why not Samuel’s? He was the only person I knew who lived in Europe, and I hadn’t been with anyone since my last relationship, the one that had made me want to flee my life in the first place. When I messaged him on Facebook, I didn’t explicitly say it was a fuck trip, but he agreed to meet me there and accepted the offer to stay in my Airbnb.

 

His flight from Berlin got in before my train, so he met me at Termini, where I was disorientated by all the flashing billboards and signs, reminding me of Times Square in a way that made me feel both comfortable and homesick. And then there was him, another flash of the familiar, a face I’d known so many years before. His blond curls were shorn, and he had a man’s face now, the boyish softness I’d once liked supplanted by a network of fine lines that extended out from the corner of his eyes toward his temples and down along his cheeks—many more lines than I had, in fact. His blue eyes lit up with his smile, and soon he was hugging me and telling me that I looked “great, really great,” which was a relief to hear after all the pasta and wine. “You too,” I told him, and then I asked if he’d ever been to Rome.

 

“Four or five times,” he said.

 

“Oh. So this is familiar.”

 

“It’s been a while. Actually, one of my best mates lives here, George, and I haven’t seen him in three years. I don’t know where the time goes.”

 

“Yeah? Did you two make plans?”

 

“Nothing concrete. I figured I’d see what you had in mind.”

 

I told him somewhat abashedly that it was my first time, and I wanted to see the sights—but he didn’t have to come with me, of course.

 

“I’d love to tag along,” he said. “The Colosseum never gets old.” The dad joke pleased me, as did the ease of speaking in English again, even though he had a bit of an affected European accent now, as vague and placeless as I suddenly felt.

 

I planned to take a cab to the Airbnb, but being less intimidated by the public transit system than I was, Samuel directed us to the proper machine to buy tickets, and then to the right bus, and after thirty minutes of swaying and conversation about the book I was writing on herbal remedies for grief and what he’d been doing in Germany—he was a sommelier, it turned out—we arrived in a one-bedroom apartment in Trieste, smaller than it had looked in the photographs, but not too small. We put our things in the entryway and explored the unit, recently remodeled to look like an Ikea showroom, white and ordinary. The only signs of life were the corn plant in the bathroom and the succulents in the bedroom window, although even they were only visible when the blinds were open. I was relieved when he suggested we go for a drink right away.

 

As we walked to the restaurants on the closest piazza, the sun broke out from behind the rain clouds that had followed me for most of the fall. No longer trapped inside a bus or underneath the arc of an umbrella, I turned my eyes toward the palm trees and umbrella pines that arced above the tops of ochre buildings up to the sky. If we were brave enough, we could sit on a patio beneath them, tempting the rain to come again.

 

We were.

 

Samuel made everything easy by speaking to the waiters in English, making no effort to go through the charade of attempting Italian after the first obligatory ciao. Focaccia and hummus arrived along with our wine, and I didn’t feel hungry, but within twenty minutes, everything before us was gone, so we ordered more.

 

It turned out that Samuel remembered more than I did from the nine months we’d worked at the same restaurant. He asked me about my brother, my parents, and of course our manager Mark, who I’d been dating at the time. “There was always something off with that guy,” he said. And there had been, but I didn’t want to tell him about the time Mark shook me so hard I bit my tongue, spitting blood out in his sink, the pink stream mingling with his beard trimmings. I should’ve quit right away, but I’d just gone on with life and the effort of loving him until it became too much. I’d kept my graduate school admission a secret, staying until the day my father drove up to help me move, and then I left forever.

 

As Samuel asked me questions, images came back to me in uncertain flashes. Besides the alley behind the restaurant, we had once talked on a brown sofa, and once on a staircase strung with Christmas lights. I’d forgotten almost everything about that time, but he remembered so much of me and who I had been then, a person I almost never thought of, and a person who was in many ways lost to me. I felt bees take up residence in my chest. I didn’t even want to remember those years when I was living them.

 

Another memory floated to the surface. Samuel had once gone to the airport without his passport and asked me to bring it from his apartment. I had searched through boxes and drawers, then sat on his white comforter in the morning light. I must have found it—it was on that trip, after all, that he’d met the girlfriend he followed to Berlin. So I asked Samuel about her.

 

He let out a long sigh and looked up at the sky, blue except for a cluster of gray clouds crowding together in the distance. He shook his head. “Fuck this,” he muttered.

 

I didn’t know what to say. “Sorry?” I asked, trying not to be offended.

 

“No, no, it’s not you. I just can’t keep talking about this shit.”

 

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t really want to, either.”

 

“God! Thank you!” he said, relieved. He lowered his eyes to mine again. “When you see old friends, there’s always this ritual, as if we can’t enjoy ourselves now without resurrecting our memories first, trying to crawl back into who we were.”

 

I knew what he meant, yet I now felt annoyed and a little embarrassed. I could feel my face hot, probably red. If we weren’t going to talk about the past, what was left? Maybe this had all been a mistake.

 

I could feel Samuel looking at me. Then, he half-stood, leaning over the table and bracing himself with one hand as he kissed me. It was a long kiss, and I could taste the wine in his mouth, rich and leathery. He pulled back and sat down again, his stained lips still slightly parted.

 

“Sorry,” he said.

 

I laughed and told him, “Don’t be sorry.”

 

We could have gone back to the apartment right away and taken off our clothes, but I think both of us knew that that would be less satisfying than prolonging the feeling between us and the question of whether or not we would sleep together—although of course we would. Really the question was whether it would be full of passion and desire, the urge to wring something out of each other, or whether it would be ugly and awkward, the simultaneous consummation and death of another part of our youth. The longer we waited, the more the desire would grow. So we walked toward the Borghese gardens.

 

Now, there was a levity to our conversation. I could feel the laughter bubbling out of my throat as we walked side by side, or sometimes, through a crowd, with him slightly ahead of me. His phone was out as he navigated the streets, so I didn’t have his full attention, but I wasn’t sure I could bear it if I did.

 

When we got to the gardens, he stopped at a picturesque cart to get us two plastic cups of wine, and then we were wandering past the Villa Borghese, which I’d bought tickets to visit the following Saturday. We walked down a long, wide sidewalk with cloud-like pine clusters above it. Soon, the sound of harp music was in the air, and we were navigating around puddles to get a view of the Temple of Aesculapius, the water reflecting the purple-streaked sky and the gathering clouds. We stood at the fence and gazed out toward the figure obscured behind the columns, but my eyes kept flitting back to my own reflection, our reflection. I remembered one particular photograph of us together at twenty-two, his arm around my shoulders. The last few hours revealed that I’d barely known him, but something had inspired that embrace and my bright gaze within it, perhaps precisely the same things that inspired the image I was looking at now in the water. Perhaps there was really something there, here.

 

Samuel looked down, and then he kissed me again, his hand on the back of my neck, and I used my free arm to pull him as close as I could, to feel the realness of him, nearly dropping my wine in the process. After a minute, though, he seemed to remember our surroundings. There were other tourists clumped around the harp player, children splashing in the puddles in their little yellow boots.

 

It started to rain. We ran back toward the museum, where there were men selling umbrellas for two euros a piece. We each got one and then, for the walk back, we were forced to stay in our own circles of protection. It wasn’t a romantic rain but a miserable one—I was wearing my suede boots with the little heels for the occasion, and they were soon soaked. I could feel my socks getting wet underneath them, my feet becoming cold, then numb.

 

When we got back, we were both drenched from the shoulders down. Samuel broke the coldness that had crept between us, taking off his jacket, his shoes and socks, all while still standing in the foyer, and then turning toward me as he took off his shirt. I saw the expanse of his chest, his lungs heaving beneath his bony ribcage, and then he picked me up and carried me to the bed in my wet layers, which he peeled off one by one. I giggled, I laughed, I tried to protest that I could do it myself, but he was in a serious mood as he warmed up each of my hands between his palms, lifted my shirt, and started to drag his hot breath down my ribs, down past the waistband of my jeans as he helped me shimmy them off.

 

You come back to that first time with someone again and again. The moment when desire was at its peak and you held yourself taut, waiting to see if it could be fulfilled. That time, it was. I realized I had wanted this for a decade. With him, I became my younger self again, but not naïve or open to abuse—just unashamed, ready to grasp what pleasure I could take without worrying overmuch about the consequences.

 

“Wow,” he said afterward. “I didn’t expect this.”

 

“Then why’d you bring condoms?” I asked jokingly.

 

“Well, I thought it would take more effort to seduce you, at least.”

 

We kissed, and I asked for him to warm me up again.

 

The first night was lost to love. I didn’t leave the room again, although he briefly put on his raincoat and pants, too rushed to get fully dressed before dashing down to buy a few slices of pizza and another bottle of wine. We went to sleep in the wee hours of the morning, and I kept startling awake from dreams. In one, we were making love on the floor of the Basilica of St. Anthony, the saint’s preserved tongue falling from its reliquary to get between us. In another, we were apart, me trapped in the belly of a strawberry bush, Samuel eating the fruit rather than cutting me out. After each, I woke and found him next to me, wound my arms around him. I couldn’t get close enough.

 

The next day, we reemerged into the world. We walked to see the obvious sites. Each one seemed less beautiful than the prospect of losing myself with him again. But Samuel had made reservations for lunch on the opposite side of the city, so we spent all day out in the bright cold, kissing in front of strangers and staring at each other and laughing at the surprise of it all. What was art next to this? All of culture, really, existed simply to try and capture the feeling that was in our chests, waiting to be looked at and stoked into flames again and again. The next day in Vatican City, I looked up at the Sistine Chapel and thought, meh.

 

By the fifth day, we had given up on the world. We tried to order in pizza, but instead we got two plastic containers of burrata, each with different accoutrement—peppers, pieces of basil, a whole tomato. We ate them laughing. I wanted to stay inside those moments forever, but of course, another urge was rising, too. I wanted to ask him, What next? He wasn’t going back to the States for the holidays, he told me—his parents were coming to Germany. And a small, irrational part of me thought that perhaps I could come, too. Nothing was waiting for me in my apartment back home, except for the gift my subletter had left on my counter. She’d sent me a photo of it along with the keys, and from the size of the box, I guessed it was a mug. Perhaps—definitely—it was too soon to meet his family, but I was willing to pay the ticket change fee for even another day, another night.

 

When the sun fell that evening, I was ravenous. Samuel had a restaurant in mind, and after a three-course meal down the street from the Pantheon—a building I had still not set foot inside—we ran through the cold to the bus stop to wait for the vehicle that would take us back to our temporary home. We found two seats, one in front of the other. Samuel sat down behind me. As the bus drove past the glorious fountains, the ancient architecture done up in wreaths and ribbon and lights, all I could think about was how to voice the whispers in my heart.

 

He leaned over my shoulder. “Hey. What do you think about going over to George’s tonight?”

 

“George?”

 

“You know, my friend who lives in Rome.”

 

“Oh. Where does he live again?”

 

He told me the neighborhood was on the other side of the river, in the opposite direction from the one we were heading in. It was past 10:00 p.m. already—not that we’d been going to bed early—and going back out into the cold was the last thing on my mind. If Samuel sensed my hesitance, he pushed right through it. He told me about meeting his friend in Berlin, and the crazy nights they’d had together in their twenties, and the fact that he’d been feeling guilty because George’s fiancée had just left him. With just two nights left in the city, he wanted to get the visit over with. That way, he and I could enjoy the rest of our time together. I didn’t have to come if I didn’t want to.

 

“No, no,” I said. “I can come.” The truth was that I couldn’t bear to be away from him.

 

We got off the bus at the next stop and hailed a cab. We held hands in the back seat, and I asked Samuel what to expect. He told me George was “a riot.” When we arrived, he leaned on the doorbell, and then we stood in the cold outside an ancient stucco building. We waited for so long I started to doubt we had the right address, but just before I asked Samuel to call, a man came down. He was short with a little bushy beard and a beanie pushed over his brow.

 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he said to Samuel. I expected George to be American, but no, he was British. “This wanker!” he exclaimed, standing on his tiptoes to ruffle Samuel’s thinning hair.

 

“And you must be Hannah.”

 

He walked us through the lobby and up the five flights of stairs, past peeling paint and the sounds of television sets coming through the doors. Panting, we arrived at a tiny, split-level apartment with a sofa and a kitchenette beneath a spiral staircase that led, I assume, to a lofted bed. There was so little in the apartment that it was hard not to notice everything in it—the dishes in the sink, the Clockwork Orange poster on the wall, the coke on the table. I wasn’t aware it would be that kind of night, but almost as soon as we sat down, both men had done lines.

 

I hesitated, and then told them I’d have just the tiniest bit. George offered us wine, too, and I accepted, then perched opposite the sofa on a little, leather, heart-shaped ottoman while the two men caught up.

 

George told the story of his jilting with a certain hysteria, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had happened. He and Anna had known each other for a year, been engaged for six months. He’d never thought he’d get married at all, but she’d been so jealous, and in June, when he’d gone on a trip to Marseilles, she’d been convinced he was cheating. Knowing this tale was not meant, really, for my ears, I made myself small. I looked at my phone, scrolling through the photos we’d taken. George was telling Samuel how Anna had left him the first time, via text, and he’d flown back right away to swear his love and win her back. She’d thrown the ring he’d bought onto the ground. It hadn’t been good enough for her, she told him, it was a fucking piece of crap. And it had been—he’d just grabbed something pretty from a vintage store in the neighborhood; he’d thought it was about the gesture. In one of my photos, Samuel was in front of the Trevi Fountain. In another, I was in front of a blooming oak leaf hydrangea. There were none of us together. As I scrolled, I half-heard the tale of George and Anna’s reunion, how they’d finally bought a proper ring and she’d moved into his flat—this one, although it was hard to imagine a second person’s possessions inside it—and they had started actually planning the wedding, her mom visiting from Naples and sleeping on the sofa, as if there were room for that.

 

“Fuck. Women,” George said.

 

“I know it,” Samuel said.

 

“Is she your girlfriend?” George asked, and I realized he was talking about me. Trying not to look too interested in Samuel’s response, I stood up and started looking for a glass. Samuel didn’t say anything, and when I sat back down with my water, George pressed him.

 

“Well, is she or not? Would you share her?”

 

Samuel just smiled and rolled his eyes. When we made eye contact again, he winked at me. It was true that even I could see George was just heated up, but I wished someone would try and tamp it down.

 

My new love and his old friend drank more, did lines, talked. Mostly George talked, going on and on about Anna’s mom’s visits. I drank water; I drank wine. We heard about the way she kept the house, the things she made and didn’t make for breakfast, the way she made it impossible to fuck with her snores and sighs. Maybe there were signs earlier, something he’d missed.

 

“Signs of what?” Samuel asked.

 

His ex-future mother-in-law had had a dream a few weeks prior to Anna’s departure. In it, the family dog had been pregnant with puppies, but she hadn’t ultimately given birth to them. Her swollen stomach disappeared, and Anna was the one who had the litter. There were four of them, tiny and brown, and the dog was so jealous she could barely be kept out of the nursery. She scratched and scratched at the door, the paint peeling up underneath her claws, and the puppies whimpering behind it. Anna didn’t have enough milk, the right milk, and the dogs began to grow up thin and angry, their cries an unceasing, hideous peal.

 

At first, George had thought it was funny. They didn’t have a nursery, and Anna wasn’t going to have puppies, or kids, or anything. She had an IUD. Slowly, he started to understand that she was actually upset about it. She thought it was some portent of what they would give birth to together. He’d tried to make light of it, tell her he could wear a condom. Or if there was something wrong with their kids, so what? They could raise a differently abled child together, couldn’t they? As long as it wasn’t actually a dog. Hell, even if it was. But Anna couldn’t let it go. For a week, she wouldn’t have sex with him, and then when she finally did, she spent the whole time staring up at the ceiling. She cried afterwards, making him feel guilty as shit. A week later, she moved out of the apartment without warning. He didn’t know where she’d gone, George told Samuel. He hadn’t looked, yet, but maybe he should start with her parents’ place in the south.

 

Underneath the tannins of the wine, I could still feel the numb drip at the back of my throat. I wanted to relax—just an hour before, I had felt so stupidly happy—but now, the bees were back again.

 

“I don’t think you should do that, man,” Samuel counseled. “It sounds like all you can do is move on.” He tried to get me involved in the conversation, to tell George about my research. “Is there an herb he could take?”

 

“I’m a historian, not an herbalist,” I said.

 

George leaned across the table toward me and told me, “I bet you could help me forget.” Then he turned back and asked Samuel, “Seriously, is she fair game?”

 

“Ask her,” Samuel said. “She speaks for herself.” I went into the bathroom and shut the door.

 

Sitting on the toilet with my tights around my ankles, I messaged him from my phone, which I’d had the foresight to keep in my hand. I’m ready to go, I typed. I listened to the muffled talking—George was on again—and waited for a response.

 

It didn’t come.

 

I went back out and took my seat on the ottoman. I kept my phone in my hand. Now, George was leaning back against the sofa, his red face jutting toward the sloped ceiling and the square pane of glass set into it. When Samuel glanced in my direction, I widened my eyes, can we go? and he gave me a subtle shake of his head, no, not now. Or maybe we didn’t know each other well enough to silently communicate. Maybe he had no clue what I was saying. Instead of trying to figure it out, he laughed at George’s stories. He offered me more wine, and I refused.

 

“She’s not very fun,” George said.

 

And Samuel looked at me brightly and said, “She can be.”

 

“Well, what’s her fucking problem tonight?”

 

I had had enough. I stood up. “I think I’m ready to leave,” I said. And then I put on my coat and went down the stairs, my legs trembling.

 

On the ground floor, I messaged Samuel again, but he hadn’t even seen the last two. Maybe his phone was in his coat pocket. Or maybe he knew that as soon as he took it out, George would grab it.

 

I stood there and looked through my email. I read the news. I gave Samuel all the time in the world to come down and get me, but he didn’t. So I went back out into the night and tried to remember the path the car had taken. I’d been relying on Samuel to know where I was, and now I was as good as lost. I looked at my phone again and again, toggling between my messages and the map that would get me to the appropriate bus stop, but I kept taking wrong turns onto narrow, darkened little streets. What was wrong with me? Why did I feel like this? It was late, now, but as I wandered on, I began to pass couples, to see orbs of light suspended above the street. And soon, I realized I was by the American University, young people still milling around at the end of the semester. They came in groups of twos and threes and fours, everyone a part of something—as I had always hoped to be, as I had always failed to have been.

 

Finally, I gave up and called an Uber.

 

Back in the Airbnb, I took off my shoes and crawled into bed with my coat on. I clutched my phone in front of me, reading through our whole exchange on WhatsApp since October. But since we’d spent every moment together for five days, there was no record of our affair in text. I tried to think through it from beginning to end, from the first kiss to the last one just before we’d gotten on the bus. As I wrapped myself in these recollections, I first worried that Samuel would be angry at me when he came back. Or maybe he wouldn’t come back at all. Then, remembering the suitcase spilling open just to the side of mine, I began to dread the certainty that he would. I fell asleep composing a speech in my head.

 

At six that morning, the doorbell rang. It took me several minutes to find the light switch, my shoes, and the key. I took my coat off. When I arrived at the front door, Samuel had an apologetic little smile on his face. A smirk, some would say.

 

“Did you have fun?” I asked.

 

“I did. Sorry George bugged you, though.”

 

“I wanted to leave.”

 

“And you left.”

 

What was there to say after that?

 

We had only one more full day together, and he spent most of it asleep in bed.

 

Late that afternoon, we went to the Villa Borghese at our appointed time despite the fact that Samuel was hungover, actually wrecked. A part of me wanted to confront him, but another part felt pity for the way he winced in the sunlight, the lines etched more deeply on his face than the day before. And another part knew that all confrontation would accomplish was the utter destruction of the bright, sparkling feeling that had breathed between us for five days. There was still a glimmer of it as we stood side by side looking at Bernini’s Daphne and Apollo, more beautiful than I had imagined. This was the stuff of myth—pursuit and desire so intense that they make us inhuman.

 

Samuel’s flight left in the early hours of the morning, and I don’t think he woke me up before he left. If he did, the moment receded into the landscape of my dreams, which had become boring again. In them, I was arranging my photographs into files, trying to decipher lines of curling text, checking my email. When I woke up, I remembered that I preferred them to be that way. I cleaned the apartment. I packed my bags with my clothes, my souvenirs, my toiletries, and a clip from the Haworthia that grew by the window.